A good old fashioned story
by TheDarkestShinobi
Summary: "Because, my dear Watson, every story needs a good old fashioned betrayal." Sherlock kicks John out after he realizes the affection, but before he can change his mind, John gets stuck in a web not even Mycroft can untangle. When Moriarty's goal is more than luring Sherlock in, the most dangerous game is on. JohnLock Bamf!John
1. More

**TheDarkestShinobi:** I was ensnared, mesmerized and taken by Sherlock. Now, I've only seen the first 5 episodes and 20 minutes of the 6th. (I'll get to it soon enough but NO SPOILERS PLEASE) Don't ask me how, it just worked that way. That being said, I may not know the characters as well as you do but I'm going to give it a whirl and I hope that you'll enjoy it.

Also, I'm from America, I'll try to get my lifts and chips right but no promises, so if I make a mistake let me know so I can fix it!

**Start:**

You couldn't pick up a piece of paper without seeing his face, reading his name. Sherlock had become famous. Of course it irritated him, not much undercover could be done when the world knew your face. John's blogging never helped, although no one seemed to remember the blogger was on these adventures too.

John shifted through the papers and Sherlock watched. Weight on toes, leaning forward, clear signs of eagerness; that and the fact he still had crumbs on his fingers. His eyebrows were creased but his eyes were wide. He was hopeful as well then. Sherlock watched him come undone, the fingers loosened and the crease in his forehead deepened, his mouth turned downwards and his feet settled. Sherlock watched him put the paper down and look up at him.

"What are you looking for?" John smiled in a way that hid his lips more than showed them, he wasn't happy.

"Nothing. Oh, you were in the paper." That was obvious; his picture was on the cover, ducking into his coat with the ridiculous hat on. John's look shifts to the same one he gets when Sherlock calls him 'Average' or 'Stupid'.

He frustrated then, but why? Sherlock lets out a breath as he settles into his chair. John must want to be more than average. But John never showed signs of wanting to improve to others; he just kept it to himself, and Sherlock.

"I'm going out."

"We're out of milk."

Lastrade had given him a semi interesting puzzle; series of murders, twins, being tied together stark naked like they were still in the womb. The first case went cold over twenty years ago and two omre showed up the same way. It took him a few hours, but the woman responsible was rather sloppy. It was an imitation act, which was disappointing because the first crime was so perfect, it would have been fun.

Sherlock was given a full page article. John didn't even bother to do more than skim it.

Next case was gang related. Italians. Trying to smuggle drugs, not nearly as interesting as the Black Lotus, but it was enough for a morning. It wasn't a full article this time, but every page seemed to have a picture of him. He was getting too big, he didn't like it. John didn't seem to like it either.

John wanted to be noticed, Sherlock concluded. The media never ran stories about him, and his blog led to Sherlock fans, not fans or Dr. Watson. He had also noticed they had meals together more often than not now. John's pupils were dilated the last time.

This could be troubling. He helped John with the dishes that night and grabbed his wrist instead of a plate once. Elevated. John cleaned the dishes longer than normal, more thoroughly than normal or even necessary.

Him. John wanted to be more to him.

"You should pack your things and move out." Sherlock said later that night, as John was getting ready to go for a walk. There was disbelief on his face.

"Excuse me?"

"Move out." And Sherlock's deep voice had no hint of emotion. "It seems we can no longer live together." Shoulders slumped, shaking of the head.

"And why is that?"

"You've an emotional attachment to me."

"Of course I do, we're friends." And his eyes checked the floor. Oh John, you should know better than to give yourself away like that.

"No. Don't take me for a fool, you think I haven't noticed? You walk closer to me now; you're trying harder to be useful. So much that you're becoming less useful. Your pulse is elevated around me, and your pupils dilate. Even now, the way you looked to the floor. And you've bumped into me five times in the last month. For a civilian, maybe that's normal, but you've had military trailing. It's obvious John." And his head tilted away in disgust and anger. "So, goodbye." John's eyes are wide, and he doesn't respond at first, meaning it is all true. It's silent for a second more.

"I'll get my stuff later." He finally says. He pauses before looking away, and again after getting his coat. He holds the doorknob too long as he opens it and holds the door open to long. He fixes his cuffs. His hands clench.

He wants me to stop him. I won't. He's gotten far too close, he wants too much. He will become a hindrance. Not only his feelings for me, but because it would not be hard to form reciprocal feelings. I could love him, easily. A weakness. There was only one solution.

"Get out."

The door slams.

…

He spins in his chair, the man in the suit worth more than a house. He lets his shoe catch the edge of the desk as he puts the picture of the man on it. Blonde hair, blue eyes, Dr. Watson was quite the catch, although that had more to do with the man he was closest too. A phone rings and he picks it up without hesitation. A smile slowly breaks out across his face that he doesn't bother to hide.

Moriarty laughed to himself. He was going to play a little game with Sherlock. He was going to burn and _he _would be the one to light the fire.

**Chapter End: **Thoughts?


	2. Therapy

**TheDarkestShinobi: **I can't stop.

I don't think I want to be helped.

**Chapter Start:**

He was leaning over another's body, way too close for most men, but John had a job to do. There was a lot of blood, and even more displaced skin, but this was something he could patch up. He could save this man's life. It only took a few minutes.

"I'm sorry, Captain."

"No, no, you did fantastic." The man let out a moan of pain as John expected.

"Come on now, would you let the queen hear that?"

"No, sir." He laughed. "Will I live?" John nodded; happy he didn't have to lie to this one like the one before. Today was a bad day.

"Just make sure you apply pressure," He instructed and the man used both his hands to press on either side of his side.

"You shouldn't, but if you feel sleepy stab yourself in the leg with this." John handed him a syringe and looked him over.

"That will keep you." He smiled slightly "Thank you for your service."

"Wait, take her, she's not done yet. Keep her happy, Captain."

Join was handed the automatic with ease and he nodded. Popping out of cover, he let a few rounds fly. He was a medic, and he was so accurate with a gun he could be anywhere else.

There is a man behind the wall that surprised John. He brought a metal pipe down. John is fast enough to move, but not fast enough. The cry that rips from him sounds inhuman and the pain in his leg feel unbearable, but he is a solider and he's not done yet. He presses all his weight on his other foot and jabs the man with the back of the gun. Then he takes half a hop back and fires two shots into his chest.

He can't think properly with the jolts coming from his leg, but it can't be broken. Nerve damage, ligaments? Focus Watson. He opens his eyes and mouth as he arches when a stronger one rips through him before hobbling back into the street.

He can see an ambush waiting to happen, so he takes a deep breath and steels himself, before setting up his power stance and firing on them first. His leg screams and he may have too, but he saved his men. That's all he cared to know.

Then his shoulder is on fire and he spins into darkness.

_Please, God, let me live._

Then he hears a gunshot much louder than the others.

…

John's hands shake as he pulls his key from his pocket. He hasn't been out of it enough to know when someone else has been in his flat, so he's cautious as he walks up the stairs. He shouldn't have left his gun in his room. He takes the path that doesn't creak and isn't entirely surprised to see his door ajar.

There are two men inside and they are carrying weapons they think are hidden. Both stand tall and strong, and that's what lets John know this isn't a burglary. He stands in his doorway to watch them, but they aren't doing much.

"Why are you here?" He takes two determined steps forward and only stops when they raise their arms to their temple in a sweeping motion. John did the same, three seconds later, they lowered their hands.

"Air Force and Navy then, why are you here?"

"Because I asked them to be." He turns to see Mycroft leaning against his wall. "Tea?" John took a cup and sat at his table with the other three as if this were a regular occurrence.

"Sherlock seems to be doing okay." John hummed a response and looked the two others up and down before turning to Mycroft. He hates that his hands are still shaking. Mycroft noticed. "Missing the battlefield?" He asks knowingly. John has had enough.

"Not to be rude, but you didn't come here to discuss your brother, if I may, why are you here?"

"For the third time now," Mycroft looks amused.

"Maybe this time I'll get an answer." His voice is sharp and filled with tension. Things ended badly with Sherlock. Mycroft looks down before nodding and the officer from the Air force speaks first.

"We need you back, Captain." And the shaking stops. John smiles and sets his tea down.

"What do I do?"

…

"Not to be rude, but I'd hoped I'd never have to see you again." She said first, her ankles crossed and her old notebook fetched. He smiled back, it was tense. She watched his cane more than his face. Blank page, although the one before only had his trust issues on the top line.

"Uh, same." She sat in a chair across from him. She could feel his frustration and anger and maybe today would show progress.

"You seem tense John." His face flattened before he shifted on the couch.

"I can't walk." Her smile is sympathetic and he hates it. "It's Psychosomatic, or whatever you call it." They both called it that. They were right, yet here he is. "but I can't use it right." He threw himself up, landing on both feet in a standing position for a second before his leg shifts and he falls back down to the chair, causing it to rock onto its hind legs for a split second before settling on all four. He grabs his thigh hatefully and shook the entire leg. "Look at it!"

"I can see." She shifts, changing the subject. "I've been reading your blog, what's happened with Sherlock." John slumps before forcing himself to sit upright.

"Too much," he twitched violently, "not enough"

"John…" He can see it in her eyes now.

"Oh, I get pity now, the solider, fatally wounded but survives!" She tries to interrupt him but he doesn't let her. "Then his mind never leaves the battlefield until a crime." A terrible crime; a delicious crime. He had killed a man; saved a man.

"John-" she sounds frantic.

"Now he's back, one year later and even worse!" John is stunned by the raw emotion in his voice. John counts 30 clicks of the clock as he lets himself breathe and she watches.

"Did that help?" She finally asks, and she sounds genuinely curious.

"A little," he admits. 10 more ticks of the clock.

"John, I know you have always been against medication" John slumped in his chair

"Fine." He looks away, had trembling.

"Fine?" she echoes, questioning his easy early submission. He had fought her on this long and hard before.

"Just make it okay." His head is in his hands and his voice is broken. She lets her face fall now that she knows he can't see her. She had put hopes in this one, the strong medical doctor who was a war hero. He could have left the war behind; she really knew he could've. She writes down a prescription with calm hands and a thudding heart.

He took the sheet of paper without looking at it, and spent the remainder of their time talking about a man in a hat he hated, a sister who couldn't put the bottle down and how appetizing cigarettes and alcohol were starting to look.

**Chapter End: **Review!


	3. Overdose

**TheDarkestShinobi:** I should get back to some of my other stories… but this is such fun.

**Start:**

Seven hostages

12 hostiles

The odds weren't terrible but they weren't as good as command would have liked. They were to sit tight and wait, but John knew the men wouldn't last that long. If they waited they would only find bodies. They had to leave now.

"We can't. We have orders." Benjamin said, placing a hand over John's gun.

"No." John grit out. "You have orders." John wasn't in their platoon; he technically didn't have orders to stay. He was only with this unit after being separated from his own, the ones in captivity now.

"Listen here corporal-"

"Captain. It's Captain, now I'm going to march out there and either save those men or die trying." John stared down the taller man. "Now give me that gun."

"Sir, yes sir." The solider said and handed him the weapon.

"Captain." A man in the back stood

"Doctor Watson"

"Captain"

"John"

"Doc"

And one by one most of the other members stood and grabbed their guns. John nodded at them and Benjamin looked over the men.

"You're all willing to go with the Captain here and try to save those men?"

"Sir, yes sir." Many people, one voice, the queen would be proud. Benjamin grabbed his gun.

"Fuck orders, on your word Captain."

…

John had grabbed his prescription bottle, still full, and made his way down the hall. There was a man dressed in all black with a facemask waiting for him.

"So how do we do this?"

"You take your medicine Dr. Watson, all of it."

…

"It's a shame you have had a domestic. I really liked the boy."

"Not now, Mrs. Hudson" She frowned.

"Well, alright then, I left some food and tea on the table for you." Sherlock waited until she was gone to lift his gun and aim it. He fired. Hit the eye on his new smiley face drawn against the wall. _Bang. Bang._ It wasn't enough, sending John away. No. _Bang. _ It hadn't been soon enough. Yes, that's it. Regardless, the emotional attachment he had been wishing to avoid had been there. It had taken his absence to realize it.

He needed to speak to John. Yes, get him back. _Bang. _Was that a good idea? His cases were more productive with the good doctor, more fun too.

_Come back._

He screamed, cursing Sherlock's name as he smashed a table into the wall. He looked for something else and slammed the chair to the ground. He yelled some more.

**Busy.**

_No you're not. _

No response

_I'll talk to you in the morning then._

**Fine**

He would pick today to text him. John typed a quick reply as he opened the bottle.

_Goodnight_

**Goodbye**

John dropped his phone.

At first Sherlock thinks nothing off it. At Mrs. Hudson's insistence he finally goes to sleep for a few hours. Suddenly, he sits up in bed still wrapped like a mummy and tilts his head. He pulls the covers away and grabs his phone. "Goodbye"? Sherlock read aloud, his mind starting to kick into overdrive. Solider. PTSD. Forms too much of an attachment to someone, kicked out. His eyes opened wide. "No."

He's running for a cab before he can register leaving the apartment and he rattles off the address of the last apartment John looked at, presumably the one he lives at. It takes too long to get there and for once, he would be unhappy to see Lastrade and yellow tape and a body.

Everyone's eyes avoid him, but they try harder to keep him back. Sally Donavan is not at the line; instead she's curled into Anderson. His wife is away again and he's not caring about public displays. Someone they knew, he feels his hand shake; someone they all knew. He knows it already; John was stronger than this, certainly. He pulls the tape up and an officer stops him

"You weren't invited this time." He turns to look at him. It's late, but his hair is still perfectly gelled, wedding ring lower than usual, he put it on angrily. His hands are tucked in neatly, trying to look his best. Also his shoulders are tense, absence of a usually present relief. Wife. Leaving

"Worry less about me and more about your wife." The officer sputtered. He thinks it's just a normal fight. "She's getting ready to leave you." He puts his hands in his eyes and Sherlock stalks forward. John would say something about brilliance right now, or subtlety, probably '_not good'_. He misses it.

"It was an overdose." Lastrade said as Sherlock ran up the stairs.

"Overdose," His tone gives away his disbelief. "Show me." His voice echoes in the empty flat and he can hear Sally making her way up the steps. Lastrade points to the other room and Sherlock wastes no time.

His body stills. His mind stops before jump starting. His mobile is a few feet away, cracked, it fell out of his hands at some point; likely the last point. He pulled his coat behind him and took a step forward. His torso is lifted against the bed, foam in the corner of his mouth, legs sprawled. More weight was supported on his left, so his psychosomatic limp was back. Yes, his cane was also on the ground.

"Look at him, Freak doesn't even have a heart."

"Donavan." Lastrade scolds.

Sherlock has a 'heart', in the way she is referring to it; it's very heavily protected and currently only inhabiting two people. One of which is lying at his feet. The clothes were normal for John, but their state was not. He hadn't shaved in a week; his hair was way too long.

"This looks like him." No it doesn't. John's cheeks were hollow, his cheekbones prominent, blood stained eyes. Eyes open, John would never face death any other way. He took a step back. It all made sense, as straightforward a death as anyone could have. John disserved better.

"I'll need blood work, dental records, the like." He turns to them, a slight smile on his face. "This is a fake."

"Enough! Freak!" It's Sally who shouts and Sherlock tilts his head in her direction. "It's John."

John, who Sherlock drove insane. John, who was showing signs of recovery before getting caught in Sherlock's whirlwind. _One day we'll be standing round a body and Sherlock Holmes will be the one to have put it there._ How she wished she was wrong. Yet here he was, staring at John like he was any other nameless corpse.

They both looked desperate to believe him, but their little minds only knew that all the little things matched the textbook case. Sherlock suddenly kneeled and raised John's shirt to reveal every single scar he could ever remember seeing on the solider. Ho noticed his hand shaking and watched it; he had shaken like that before, Carl Powers, the swimming pool, when John had been wrapped in explosives.

"A good fake."

"Oh my God, you sick-"

"Donavan, go to the car." And she leaves.

"How do you know Sherlock, we want this to be a fake just as much as you do, but _how_ do you know?"

This time, there was not missing suitcase or wedding ring, no hallucinogen or tattoo. Sherlock didn't know how he knew. Lastrade saw that as Sherlock did and sighed. For once, Sherlock was wrong. His boys came in to clean the place and Sherlock stood to the side.

There was nothing physically wrong, just that John would never commit suicide, and he _knew_ that. It was a perfect setup.

"Moriarty"


	4. The New Guy

**TheDarkestShinobi: **call me butter, 'cause I'm on a roll

**Start**

_Earlier_

"My death, is that really necessary?" John asked as he leaned into the chair in the office. He was cleaning his new gun as Mycroft explained his new duties for her highness.

"Yes, while we don't have precedence for this, it has been deemed necessary due to your fame." John didn't even look up from his weapon. "Sherlock also may come for you." John placed the gun gently in his case.

"Sir, I am a soldier, I am trained to follow orders without reason or justification, you don't need to give me either, but don't lie to me." They made eye contact over the table. It was odd, not to see John in Sherlock's shadow. He was a darker man without Sherlock, and that was a thought so odd he didn't want to entertain it any longer.

Maybe, Mycroft entertained, John was just different. Civilian and military lives were different, and if the John had acted like Mycroft had known him to in Afghanistan then he might not have made it out. So there was John and the Captain. Had Sherlock noticed this, did he bring John out from the Captain? Interesting.

"Understood, Captain" John shifted his head.

"If that will be all,"

"Actually, go see Kayla, she needs to make a full body inspection."

"Yes, sir."

She demanded to see everything; she traced every scar on his body and learned his muscles. She learned the exact shape of the burns on his legs. This had to be exact, because Sherlock never forgot anything he saw. She made him jump, made him pull his hair and fall against a bed and stay there for ten minutes. She had him drop his phone when he fumbled and by the end of it filled a notebook with details so minute he wondered if she was like Sherlock.

"My boss likes to be through." She explained with a smile as she finished. "Thank you Dr. Watson, next you have to see your therapist."

"My therapist?" He repeated as a question and her smile and nod disarms him, she was beautiful.

"Yes, you need a prescription to overdose on."

"An overdose?" He waved his hand "don't I disserve something a little… more…" her look didn't change and so he dropped his hand and his thought without finishing it. "Okay, how do I convince her to give me a prescription?" She smiled

"Simple."

…

_Present_

"Do you have that blood work for me yet?"

"It takes more than two hours Sherlock." Lestrade said and Sherlock slammed his hands on the desk. "Come on, think, who could convince John to go along with this?"

He needed his skull, or John. Preferably John.

"Along with what?" Sherlock lifted his head. "He's dead. He committed suicide. Now," Sherlock watched him pull out a pad "you were on the scene minutes after we were and the tip was anonymous."

"Tip? What kind of tip?" He was getting excited again, Lestrade noticed with dismay.

"Complaint actually, John was throwing a fit, broke a chair, shot the wall, screaming at himself."

"About?" Sherlock was trying to imagine the situation.

"The war."

"No." Sherlock was looking at his hands; Lestrade hated him in that instant. "There is more."

"About you. Cases. Him being invisible." Sherlock's face fell for a second, of course. "Now what made you come to John's place?"

"I'm a suspect."

"If its murder, you're the only one."

"This." Sherlock pulled out his phone to show his last text from John.

"Goodbye?"

"I send him Goodnight, why would he respond goodbye to goodnight." He watched the other sigh and lean back into his chair. "John did not commit suicide. Call when you have the records."

…

"Hey It's the new guy!" One of the others exclaimed, and John heard a few naughty chuckles.

"Hey, new guy." One of the bigger men said as he walked closer. John looked him up and down. Good stature, hasn't been here long though, most likely to only recently gotten over initiation himself. "What's your name?" John straightened even further, though he had no hope of reaching the other, who made him look like a hobbit in comparison.

"John Watson," One of the men behind the other raised an eyebrow and opened his mouth in disbelief and John smiled, it was nice to be back to being known.

"Captain John Watson Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, so I wouldn't call myself new."

"Did I hear a John Watson!" from the next room, a muscular man burst in. Terrible job, his face, with four separate lines of stitching across it, left eye permanently shut and a burn over his right cheekbone. John recognized the type of burn, there was one on his leg just like it. It was Afghanistan for him then. "This man stitched me up on the battlefield." Ah, his terrible job then. "Kept my face closed enough to save it." He bounded over to the doctor and shook his hand enthusiastically.

"I never got a chance to thank you, heard you'd been shot, fatal." John rotated his shoulder; the mention of the wound always brought back a haunting pain.

"Near fatal."

"Lay a hand on him." The man started again, "and answer to me." John didn't have to suffer a second initiation, and for that he was happy.

…

"John, John, **John, JOHN!**" Sherlock gradually rose to a yell as he slammed the test results onto the table one by one. "Oh, this is very good!" Sherlock jumped onto a chair, legs settling under him. He placed his hands together as he rested his chin on it. It all pointed nowhere, so it had to be Moriarty. That much was obvious, the how was not. He closed his eyes, think, how could this be done?

"Denial-I can't believe it. Freak's in denial." Donavan shook her head next to Lestrade, who opted to look at her instead of the man putting his dirty shoes in his chair. He sighs and opens the manila envelope in front of Sherlock.

"We've got a murder we want you to take a look at." Sherlock opened his eyes.

"What?"

"A woman with a hole drilled in her foot, matches a case from a town over, from a year ago. He drains the victims' blood and collects it. No blood found in the crime scene. Both women are in white gowns, almost like wedding dresses. Their bodies are strung up by their hands." His eyes skimmed the file and then the pictures although John never left his thoughts.

Donavan watched him work and hoped this could take his mind off of John. Then she shook her head, blinking more than she should've and walked out.


	5. Seven

**TheDarkestShinobi: **Sorry, no John in this one, but Sherlock's deductions take so much space, enjoy. I can't take credit for coming up with these crimes, they are Ted Derker's.

**Start:**

A rectangular room, a 5 meter by 12 meter

Sherlock stands at the door, as he observes. Lastrades men have been in here too long, they've disturbed the dust. The interior was dimly lit, the floor was wood and the roof was tin. More light came in from cracks in the roof. It had been abandoned a long time.

There was a shovel and a pitchfork against the far wall that hadn't been touched yet, and he walked over to it slowly. He crouched, careful not to remove anything. The dust around it is settled, thick; hasn't been moved in years.

"We can't figure out how he used them, but we're going to scan them for fingerprints."

"Brilliant." Sherlock said as he stood, his coat sending dust flying.

"Really?" Anderson asked, skeptically.

"Oh, yes," Sherlock pulled out his phone while walking away "brilliant waste of resources and time. You'll find nothing; they both haven't been touched in years."

A single window with dirty, tinted panes, crowded by cobwebs

He stayed long, but not long enough to get stifled by the heat. No more than a day. He was an expert at this then, should be, it's his third kill. Food cans in the corner, made to look like he would be back, he wouldn't. He hadn't come back.

Sherlock finally came to rest in front of the dead woman. Her body was glued to the wall, single line of glue' he didn't want to ruin her skin. She was right handed. Married, happily, by the indent in her left ring finger, but the killer didn't like that she was married, or else it wouldn't have been removed. Long hair, but with the ridges suggesting it was always pulled back. He softly opened her hands fully. Strain from writing and being on the computer, didn't seem like pleasure, so she worked in an office. He pulled back her finger to expose her nail, pencil dust, so a mathematical profession.

Her nude torso had a pale glow in the single light shaft, almost heavenly. Her tan was natural. That skin tone and the curves of her face and body, she was some sort of Spanish, maybe Hispanic. He stopped moving, letting his mind race. Both arms stretched out on either side, like a sacrifice. Her posture, protruding. He left his head shift from left to right. Aztec, no, Mayan, similar, no, no, this was art. The killer was so careful; everything had to be so perfect. _Venus de Milo, _no, _Winged Victory, _but this wasn't made to be like a ship. This was elegant, a sacrifice, a thousand different renditions of the crucifixion ran through his mind, yes. The killer was Christian. Most of her weight was supported on dowels under her armpits, which were very carefully shaven. Her heels were brought together at the heel and angled away to form a V.

There was a white veil of translucent lace carefully arranged to cover her face. She was a bride. Explains why he took off her wedding band, a bride of Christ perhaps. He let his index and middle trail down her face and side as his eyes remained closed. She was smooth, almost too smooth to be real, and soft, he could feel muscle around her abdominal, and her biceps were tougher than most. This was an athlete as well.

He took a step back, the killer was careful, oh so careful to make sure everything was symmetric in the placement of her body, everything except for her head. It slumped gently to the left, eyes closed. No pain, no suffering and no blood. He didn't want to know he killed her.

"She's beautiful." Donavan said behind him. He closed his eyes and sniffed.

"Have any of you eaten?" He asked the whole and received many sounds of negativity. "The killer had baked beans, out of a can."

"How-"

"Sniff, metallic, also beans, but the beans don't smell fresh, very salty." He paused "You won't find a can though; he wouldn't be stupid enough to leave anything behind."

He turned to the worktable. It watched the killer take this woman's life, what could it tell him?

"He brought her in here, killed her right here." No scuffs, the table didn't move from where it was. "No struggle. He didn't want her to feel pain." Sherlock took two steps back raising his hands to his head. "He kept her on the edge, sedated, yet conscious. She was fully aware when he numbed her heels and drilled into them." He narrowed his eyes. "He drilled into her on the table."

"There's no blood." Lastrade said and Sherlock turned away.

"There's no blood anywhere. Now he reseals the wound and brings her up here, and holds her up long enough for the glue to hold. He is delicate, oh so delicate. He reopened the wounds and watched her, spoke to her even, told her why."

The how was the simple part. He rested his chin in the crevasse between his thumbs and forefingers.

"But why? He is so careful, **so **delicate. He's precise in his takings. Christian Sacrifice, the brides of Christ, four of them now. But even then, all this was unnecessary, why put in so much care for these women? He shaved them, moisturized them, he made sure they were perfect. There is something, something I'm missing something big."

He lets out a long low groan.

"Oh, oh you," He smiles and he lowers his hands and walks up to the bride. "You love them. Oh you love each and every one of these women." He lifts her peaceful face. "You have to, you can't bear to see them in pain, but you have to send them to Christ." He talks to her now. "Oh you, he needs to make you understand why you're being sacrificed, that's why he keeps you conscience."

He turns to see the other two with open eyes and explains, in painfully obvious details how he knows and they take his word as they always do.

"Seven, detective inspector, I think this man has the seven women he wants to sacrifice already picked out."

"Seven?" Donavan asks and Sherlock nodded.

"It's a symbolic number to that religion."

**End**


	6. Bride

**TheDarkestShinobi: **Review!

**Start:**

He wasn't trained so much as re-familiarized with the body. It hadn't been that long, John thought as he went through the steps. It wasn't like this though, in the field, wasn't this clean, this quiet. The real test wasn't in here, but in the field as the man you're trying to help is screaming and jerking, bullets flying in the background and blood, way too much blood everywhere.

It was enough for a lifetime, he told Sherlock once, yet he wanted more.

They wouldn't send him abroad again, and he had a feeling that Mycroft was involved with that, he'd be more likely to die overseas. He held the handgun up and lined his hands with the target. He spread his feet, no resistance from either leg.

Sherlock had been in another building that time, and with a handgun like this it would have been considered a crack shot. John pulled the trigger. _Bang._ He knew he wouldn't miss though, his hand didn't shake; it never shook with a gun. _Bang_. Sherlock had known it was him right away, despite him trying to hide it. _Bang._ It wasn't much of a surprise. _Bang, Bang. Bang. _ He dropped quickly, on one knee now. _Bang. Bang. _Sherlock did get thrills from risking his life. John did too he supposed. _Bang._

There was one more target. His eyes searched the field. He stood spinning to the left a bit and locked on to the target.

_Bang._

"Well done Doctor, are you sure you were only used in the medical capacity?"

"I've had bad days." He let one side of his mouth raise. "Too many bad days. Yes, I was used in a medical capacity, but I'm there to protect the others, this is part of that."

"You pass. Surprise" His tone indicated it really wasn't "Follow me,"

…

Sherlock knew it was here. This woman was next, this was the place, and he would strike today.

"_Hello, Amelia." She opens her eyes at the sound of his voice. Oh, Amelia, the fourth favorite, he smiled at her and she tried to scream. She jerked but the cloth held her in place._

"_Shh, shh," he coos. "Don't get yourself all flustered. "I'd have to use more drugs, and I don't want to do this without your permission." She quieted, but her eyes were still frantic. No, that wouldn't do at all. "I would like to talk to you. We should have a dialogue, because I think I can help you see some things more clearly. We can only do this if you promise not to scream. It's unbecoming of a woman of your status." He smiles widely, "do you know who you are?"_

_Her eyes scanned the room, and his face, took in both of their naked forms. She shook her head._

"_No, no" his hand caressed her face gently, "so few people know who they really are. I want you to listen to me carefully. Then we can talk, okay? Nod your head" she did. "Do you believe in God?" She nodded again. Good. _

_She knew God could save her._

The doors were shut well, and Sherlock couldn't open them himself, thankfully the police force was capable at this.

"_Its' no wonder he chose you then. Do you believe he is infinite?" Another nod. "And that he is a God of love?" Yes. "Are you sure?" He trailed his eyes down her perfectly smooth white skin. He had already shaved her and lotioned her up while she was unconscious. She was almost ready, but he had to try and make her understand. "It's one thing to believe in God, but an infinite God of love is another thing. Do you really believe this?" She nodded, a tear escaping her eye. He wiped it away trying not to cry himself. She was scared, oh so scared. _

"_Do you go to church?" No, she shook her head, but she was praying now. One miracle, that's all she would ask for. _

"_Then you don't bow your knees with the mentally ill hypocrites, you believe in a loving infinite God." He was happier now. Amelia swallowed and trembled._

"_That's very good. Then it will be easy to understand that the love an infinite God has for a person is also infinite. You can't say he loves this one more than that one, or that he can only love someone so much. He can love infinitely many people this way."_

_Her chin lowered and he felt good about her predisposition to understand. She understood the basics._

Sherlock ran up the stairs two at a time. He was in front of the others, long legs allowing him to eat up the steps faster than the others.

"_There is no one God loves more than you, Amelia, do you see it?" She nodded, but he could tell she didn't. "Don't just nod, think, when you love someone infinitely, you can love no one else more. You see everyone is God's favorites, everyone. This is possible because God has infinite love. He can have multiple favorites without changing the meaning of the word. Each one is still truly a favorite; receiving the greatest God has to offer. The point is you are God's favorite."_

_He wanted to kiss her. His brain buzzed as it did with every bride. He had to leave the kissing to God._

"_It means that every power in heaven and earth is perched on the edge of their seats, the tips of their toes just waiting to see what the favorite Amelia will do. Will she respond to her love's call and return to God, or will she spit in his face for another few measly years on earth?" She was soaking it in, speechless._

"_You're the favorite, all of eternity past has been waiting for the one God did it all for. Tonight, you can finally join him as his bride." He said it masterfully, fully lost in his own illusion. "Tonight is your wedding night."_

_He pulled the cloth from her mouth and she coughed. He was instantly hovering._

"_Are you alright, would you like some water?" She cried, turning away from him, oh she must be as overwhelmed as he was. Her tears ruined her makeup; he'd have to reapply it later._

"_You are a seed; you must fall to the ground and die so you can grow into the beautiful flower you were meant to be."_

Too many flights of stairs to not have an elevator.

"_You're wrong."_

_He stepped back in surprise; the others called him crazy and begged for their lives. One tried to convince him she couldn't be a favorite. None had told him he was wrong. Her red hair cascaded all the way down her back as she turned to him._

"_God doesn't want us to die now, not by you. God's love for us is so infinite that he lets us decide when and how we go to him." Her voice was shaky. He shook his head, she didn't get it. "You're hurting his favorites and that makes you an enemy of God."_

"_NO!" He shouted. "Enemies of God get smiteted, I am being praised, I have returned almost half of his favorites to him."_

"_You think so," she looked fiery, "but God doesn't want a bride against her will."_

_He punched her then, she fell to the table unconscious and he panted. _

Sherlock threw the door open and walked in.

The room was empty, except for the pale woman with the veil perfectly covering her face.


	7. Broken Palace

**TheDarkestShinobi: **Edited to now include a funeral scene, which was inspired by a line I read in a Captain America photo.

**Start**

"You men have been selected to locate this group of insurgents." John crossed his arms as he watched some faces come up onto the screen in front of them. He'd been good with details and tries to remember as much of their faces as possible. The men next to him were doing the same and the room was quiet with the exception of the shuffling of papers for a few minutes.

"This is the man in charge of this operation, Captain Jesse Miller." The man stood up with a brief nod and a smile before sitting back down.

"Your main point of communications here, Martha Smith," She waved

"and your Doctor, John Watson." John was standing in the back, so no one noticed him right away.

"Right then," the eyes located him and he smirked "try to make my job easy."

"I'll leave you all to get better acquainted, tomorrow, your assignment begins." John was suspicious of his 'death' if they weren't going to change his name, but the opportunity to seek out Mycroft had past, and he had a group of men to befriend.

No drinking the night before they started, but military gents always found ways to have a good time. It only took the night for them to grow close.

…

"Are you going to the funeral?" Sherlock looked up from the floor and tilted his head. Mrs. Hudson took another step into the apartment; she was in a black dress and hat with t small veil covering her face. "John,"

"He's not dead." Sherlock's face turned into one of confusion "so why would I attend his funeral?"

"Oh, Sherlock, I know what it is like-"

"He's not dead." Sherlock said firmly. "Go if you wish but I need to focus if I'm to find the killer before his fourth victim. Good bye."

"but-" she stars softly

"**Goodbye,**" his voice is harsh before he levels it off "Mrs. Hudson."

He shuts the world out then with a small breath. He needed to visit his mind palace.

…

"Teams of four, at entry points here, here, here" Jesse pointed to different parts of the map with his pointer, "and here." John nodded as he took out his weapon and cocked it, the others doing the same. He studied the map as Jesse split the teams up and Martha's voice sparked in his ears. Jason, self-appointed leader of their group patted him on the shoulder and he nodded. He took up the rear and adjusted his med pack.

Quick and easy they said, but the fact that there was a group of 16 didn't give John hope. He raised his gun,

_You have intermittent tremor in your left hand_

Not now it didn't.

_You're not haunted by the war, Dr. Watson, you miss it_

"Now," The static in his ears cleared up to say and he ran forward with the rest of them.

…

Veils, purity. He shook those thoughts away. One of the women had been married. Married, yes, veils, all the woman wore the same veils.

He never touched the girls, so he was saving them. Saving them for Christ, maybe, they were positioned the same way he was claimed to be. No, no, not Christ. God. Yes, this man thought he was a prophet, messenger, deliverer.

Sherlock's face turned slightly as he raised his hands further. There was no pattern to the locations that would imply a fifth, think, think! Fifth floor, second floor-2 on the second floor, eighth floor, white walls, tiled walls, brick walls. The women had makeup, and were shaved, the perfect idea. He did love them. These women were picked. Meticulously picked out the women beforehand, the place and time had to be planned.

Their heads were tilted to the side-John's head was against the couch, foam at the corner of his mouth and a bit of vomit on his shirt.

Toilet flushed, still traces of vomit on the side where his hands were. Sherlock shook his head. Focus. The chair had been thrown into the wall with enough force to break it. The table had been smashed with force. John could do it; even years out of service that training left him strong enough to put a hole in the wall. Sherlock's head jerked violently to the left

The scars had been exact, Sherlock remembered them clearly. That was way too much detail for a fake. His eyebrows twitched, hands jerking and head moving to the right.

It was real. He kept shaking his head. Going through the evidence

Teeth-real-no

Scars-true

Records-his-but

Blood –real

"No." He spoke as his eyes opened. He wouldn't believe himself. He couldn't.

…

There were rows of men in uniform standing the entire time to show their respect, none without tears in their eyes or running down their face. Mrs. Hudson couldn't stop the tears if she tried, she had seen far too many of her friends in caskets. She let out a small moan as a man gently rested his hand on her shoulder. She looked up towards him.

"Hello Ma'am, my name is Julian Miller," she looked away from him. "I served with John in Afghanistan, he was a good friend."

"I was just his landlady," she mutters and he uses his hand to gently turn her around to hug him. She gripped his uniform as she let herself have a good cry. She was here to bury another one and she didn't know if she could do it anymore.

"He was a great man." He said strongly, only breaking at the end as he shook his head.

"The best kind." She agreed in a soft voice.

Mike Stamford stood with closed eyes, nodding. After a second spent composing himself he opened them and walked towards the podium. The murmurs quieted as he approached it and the crowd, because there was a small crowd, was silent as he cleared his throat.

"In war you learn the worst of people," he started, his voice was low and strong, but he was trying a little too hard to keep it steady. "You see them at their lowest, at their most desperate." He paused and took a breath. "When you go to war with John Watson, you see that the worst of some people can be better than the best you've ever been." There was a chuckle from the crowd. Mike looked to the casket and then back to the crowd.

"In Afghanistan, you learn to run like you've never known," There were lots of nods "and you run until you have to walk," Mike's voice got stronger as he went on "when you can't walk anymore you crawl," Mike's voice was proud and strong now and the men in the audience stood straighter, stood stronger. "And when you can't do that, you find someone to carry you." The audience listened, captured. Harry collapsed in her chair. Ms. Hudson would have fallen if Julian hadn't held her up. "And John Watson was the man that would carry you even when he couldn't walk anymore."

He looked up, because he knew that's where John would be.

"John, I'm asking you to carry us one more time, carry us through this because you truly were the best of us, and you've made all our lives brighter."

…

John steps over the man with the hole in his side and lowers his body enough to start working. He can hear enough gunshots and shouting to know it's almost over. The other gets patched up rather quickly, the shot more of a graze than John initially taught. The other shooed him away as he clutched his gun and said he'd be fine.

The shots are over now, and two others come to help this one out. John is walking around when he spots Jason standing over a body. Jason lowers himself and sticks his fingers against the side of the man's neck looking for a pulse. He must find one because he reaches down and twists the neck until it crunches. John's boots sound heavy against the wood floor and Jason turns to him before turning away and stepping over the body before checking another.

"There are others, back home, who think they are crazy," the next one has no pulse and John uses his gun to lift the man's shirt and sees the swirl on his neck that the group had. "They think because they are quirky, they are monsters." John lets the coat fall and steps over the next body. The round that hit him took half his face, but John only spares it a glance, he's seen much worse done to people who were a lot better.

"But look at us, we enjoy this, hell we miss it. We're the monsters."

"We can be," John says to Jason as they turned away from the lot, safety on "We certainly can."


	8. Alec Green

**TheDarkestShinobi: **I've got so much of this story written, it's just writing the connecting bits that's taking a while. Regardless, here is the next chapter, enjoy and review!

**Start**

"We know there in an attack planned this Saturday." John rested his chin against his interlocked hands as he leant forward on the table. "Alec Green still wishes to proceed so we will station four men." Their commander took the cap of his pen and tapped on the map. "In these four spots." He circled two buildings. "The only place with a good shot for a sniper is here and here, so we will have four men in each of those buildings, the other four will be in the crowd looking for suspicious activity."

There was a short pause as the men nodded. "We are looking for hostages, so watch your shots." John had been on mission like that in Afghanistan. _A dying man talks more than a dead one, Cap!_

"Permission to speak?" He asked and it sounded odd to his ears, he hadn't had to ask for permission in ages. Technically he didn't now, since their commander was also a captain but it was a show of respect.

"Always Watson," Jesse replied and John placed his pointer next to the stand.

"Mission priority is protection, second is hostages." At the other nod he continued "I request to be stationed right here in case someone does get close enough to initiate contact." The other thought it over before nodding.

"Sound thought." He looked over the others in the unit. "Rob, you're the most proficient in hand to hand combat, so you will be stationed here to assist the good doctor in whatever capacity you can."

"Yes, sir."

…

"So you're going to the Alec Green speech?" he overheard Lestrade asking on the phone as he walked back into the living room.

"You know she's lying." He said as Lestrade hung up the phone and Lestrade just shook his head and held up his hand.

"I really don't want to know Sherlock, can you tell me anything new?"

"Yes." They both paused as they heard footsteps upstairs and things clattering to the floor. Sherlock was up and running before Lestrade turned around. Sherlock threw the door open to see Mrs. Hudson placing things back on the dresser. Lestrade looked towards Sherlock and saw the consulting detectives shoulders slouch and the rest of his posture followed. He knew John's death would be hard for Sherlock, but he really didn't realize how hard.

"He must've been in a hurry when he moved out," She explained as she placed a book on the dresser next to a few shower items and a hat. "He left some stuff here." She fidgeted. "I wasn't trying to sell it or anything, just wanted to…" she trailed off and Sherlock could see the tears forming.

"Good day, Lestrade. I'll text you."

…

"You outrank me, you know." Jesse Miller sat as he sat next to him in the bar. John tilted his head in response but didn't provide an answer.

"Sure, we're both Captains, but you were Captain of the Northumberland Fusiliers." John smiled a bit into his beer. "You've saved dozens of lives out there." Jesse shook his head "I got promoted a week after my father got a bullet in the head, hard to think I deserved it. "

John bought the captain a glass, and they drank in comfortable silence as the alcohol loosened their tongues a bit.

"I asked for you, you know." John raised an eyebrow as he set the glass down. His lips curved upwards with his exhale.

"How so?"

"Not directly, mind you. I knew what they were sending us into and that they were trying to find a 16th, so I told them to get me a doctor, a damn good one with experience."

"Lot of experience, there." He shook his head turning somber. "Lots of bad days."

"Did you lose a lot?" The other put down his empty glass.

"In a ways." He confessed swirling his beer before taking the last gulp. "in a ways" he repeated not wanting to say more. With a hasty salute he made his way back to the other gents and tried not to join in the arm wrestling bit. Instead, he tried to get enough beer into Jason to hear him embarrass himself with his _rap._

…

"and that's why I came here today!" The people listening cheered and John let his eyes roam the crowd. That wasn't his main concern as the likely place for the shot to come from was way out of his sight.

"All of you should be treated in a way…" he let the word's trail of as he focused. What was out of place? The buzzing of low chatter in his ear gave him eyes all over the plaza.

"Jason, Dessler." He spoke lowly, but loud enough for them to here.

"Here Cap"

"Yes?"

He stared at the scaffold that was higher than the building.

"One, or both of you go check out the building diagonal from the plaza, red brick, scaffold."

"Jesse said to retain position." Was all Dessler said but Jason tried to contact Jesse.

"No word from Jesse, his comm must be out." John frowned.

"I need you to check that building." It wasn't his team, but he was commanding them like they were. John shifted and scanned the crowd again. "Now."

He could hear the hesitation and thanked Go these men were not the ones he served in Afghanistan with, or he'd surely be dead. "That's an order, corporals." He heard Dessler's sigh and Jason's throat clear.

"Right away Captain." Jason said and John nodded.

"I'm staying right here" Dessler said in response and John could picture the man giving him the finger. These men were lucky to be fighting this battle.

"Captain?"

"Yes?" John answered, although it could have been meant for Jesse, who remained MIA.

"Permission to join Jason?"

"Granted Kyle."

John saw the men dart across the street and then something on the scaffold moved. John cursed under his breath.

"A hostile is in that building, neutralize and detain is our goal. Rob, get to the stage now."

"And that's why-"

There was a gunshot and a dozen screams, John's ear buzzed with static.

"Hostile spotted!"

"Going for takedown!"

"Shot fired, I repeat shot fired!"

"Got the hostile."

"I got two running. Jason and I are engaging."

"We left the shooter on the scaffold, he's handcuffed. Someone get him!"

"This is Dessler, I'm coming!"

Rob and Alec were sprawled on the floor, Rob's body on top. Alec groaned as Rob hopped up and drew his gun. There was a growing red blotch on Alec's suit and he was cursing as he tried to get up. John stopped him and took of the man's coat before ripping open his shirt. Alec would have protested about him ruining it, but the bullet really hurt and the blood was never going to come out.

"John, I can cover you better from inside."

"For Christ's sake, look at him." Rob let out a snort.

"All the good it'll do, Captain, if there's a bullet in his head." John nodded at that and scooped the man up. For all the wild gesturing limbs the man was pretty small, and light. This was nothing compared to the times he had carried bigger men with FCU's on them both. Rob closed the door behind him and John set about his work.

It was so much cleaner without all the sand and bullets. The politician whined for all he was worth though.

"I'm going to go check the other rooms and close the other entrances." John nodded and heard the other man relaying all the important pieces around to the others. Three men were alive and in custody and Jason, don't ask him how, got one of them to reveal that today's attack had seven total.

"FREEZE!" John glances up from Alec to look at the two men stalking forward. Both their guns were leveled at his head. John had thrown the man's coat over his head and was hoping they wouldn't realize it was their target, but there was no luck there. John's hand moved of their own accord, stopping the bleeding as best they could. Alec had stopped moaning, which was a bad sign. John keeps working and the others share a glance trying to figure out if he was really ignoring them. The second grabs John's arm forcefully and rips him form Alec's side.

"For heaven's sake, I'm a doctor!" he exclaims as he snatches his arm back. He doesn't step away fast enough and the second man rips his earpiece away before throwing it on the ground and crushing it beneath his feet.

"Your uniform is military." John's eyes betray him and widen. This was an undercover uniform, which meant they had someone on the inside. Still he gestures to Alec and the second has the gun trained on his now exposed face.

"A military doctor." They won't let him tend to Alec, as their mission today was to kill him. Where was Rob!? The gun is trained on John's head and he throws his hands up. "I don't even have a gun!" he exclaimed with a voice rising in pitch. The two exchanged glances before one nodded and the other came behind him to search him. At least they didn't kill them, well not yet. The patting starting at his neck, and gradually lowered. John didn't even breathe so the first started to relax. Maybe he had somehow convinced them he was only a healer. The first took his finger off the trigger and John took a breath knowing his action had to be quick and sudden. The first looked around the room for signs of others and then made his mistake in lowering the gun. John lost his "threat" status.

This was his chance. He turned around quickly and brought his closed fist to the back of the man's neck. He heard a small grunt and the man dropped like lead. Alec's eyes widened as he watched. The first let out a strangled sound of shock and tried to raise his gun and fire. John knew the type of gun. Most of the weight rested on your shoulders because it was a heavy gun, therefore it wasn't one to quickly aim with. John was faster anyway. He shoved his open hand against the other's wrist causing him to cry out and release the gun. Next he grabbed the man's shoulders and pulled as hard as he could. The other had no chance and his body crumpled down as John drove his knee up.

He probably shouldn't have done that, he realized mid motion, since they wanted the men alive. This move would surely kill him. John's knee hit the sweet spot in the middle of the ribcage and he could feel it give. John let go of his shoulders as he brought his knee back down and the man fell to the ground. It wasn't a quick death, and both of them could hear his last choking breaths. Rib pierced a lung, he had minutes at best.

John couldn't focus on them, he had bad days before and these were bad guys. He wouldn't lose a minute of sleep tonight unless he let Alec die. It takes a few more minutes of undisturbed peace before he's done what he can and the door bursts open. John grabbed the gun next to him and pointed it at the door. Rob, Jason and Michael are there and he lowers the gun before placing it on the ground.

"Captain, they're looking for you!"

"dead." John interrupts as he stands and the three take in his handiwork without a sound. John sighs. "We need to get Alec to a hospital as soon as possible but I've stabilized him."

**End.**

Thoughts?

Also doing a one song series now, so look at my profile for info


	9. Four patch problem

**TheDarkestShinobi: **Enjoy!

**Start:**

"We're recovered Jesse." He heard Dessler's voice through the car radio. "If we hadn't got here sooner they would have killed him."

"There was only one when we got here, he's in custody; little worse for wear but breathing." John pulled the radio to his lips.

"Mr. Green is stabilized and in transport to the hospital. There are two bodies in the main lobby of the museum behind the podium." Thank goodness it had been closed for the speech. Still John frowned, that left one.

"I'll take care of the bodies." Peter chimed in and John told them all to report back to him when done.

Rob turned the wheel to follow the ambulance when Jason spoke up.

"How did you know?"

"Know what?" John turned slightly in his seat to look into the back.

"That Jesse was out of it," John let out a breath

"I didn't." He was used to the war, where someone's non response could be taken as a casualty, "but I made a call. There are few reasons a commanding officer stops talking to his team."

…

He stroked her black hair as he spoke to her, she stopped trembling a while ago and he knew she wasn't scared anymore. If anything she was angry. He could not understand why, he was delivering her to God. "Even I can see you are one of God's favorites. You should have no problem with that." He caressed her dark face after tucking a curl under her ear. It freed itself immediately after and he smiled. "You may not know this, but Jesus was also dark like you."

"You're a sick man!" She growled out as she jerked. Her breasts swayed from the motion and he had to be careful not to look at those dark tempting nipples. This woman was meant for more than he.

"Most of God's messengers were thought to be sick men as well." He responded instead as he grabbed the makeup bag he brought with him. By the end of it her face would be lighter than her body, but the tones would match once she was drained.

"You're not a messenger" she grit out "and you're not a prophet."

"No, I'm not" He agreed with a smile as he brought out the razor he would use to shave her to smoothness for her wedding night.

"So what are you?"

"His deliverer." She laughed then and he paused.

"You really do believe this," she shook her head in disbelief. "You're going to burn."

"Threatening me with hell, Danielle?" She shook her head.

"It's not a threat, it's a promise." She turned away from him. "I might not be able to stop you, but there is no way He'll let you get away with this."

"God is on my side, there is no way I can be stopped."

She was the most beautiful, if he were allowed to judge those he had delivered.

He wasn't.

…

"You saved my life." Alec started the conversation shortly after John sat down. His was in his more formal uniform, the medal form his service in Afghanistan standing out against the gray. His haircut yesterday just added to the look.

"Well," John let out a smile "I'm a doctor, hardly be useful if I couldn't." He laughed then and the other joined him.

"You had no weapon and killed those men in seconds." John's smile flattened as he readjusted himself on the chair. He gave a curt nod and smile that hid more of his lips than showed.

"Saw that then."

"Of course I saw that!" John didn't say anything to that and Alec let out a breath.

"They had lied to me; you're not a regular doctor."

"Uniform gave it away?" John gestured to it as Alec shook his head.

"No. You weren't afraid to die," He had whimpered and cried but John didn't even flinch "very skilled in hand to hand combat" deadly, what did it take; five seconds to dismantle them, "you were so calm when they held that gun to your head." There was another pause. "Afghanistan or Iraq."

John froze before realizing the voice wasn't Sherlock's. "Afghanistan," he answered, "what gave that away?"

_You're tan but not tan above the wrist. You've been abroad but not sunbathing._

"It was a guess. Where else are we sending soldiers? What's with the look?" John looked down.

"Oh, uh, nothing; reminded me of an old friend." He shifted again and saw the apology in the others face.

"I'm sorry." It was an incorrect assumption, but John didn't correct him. Alec cleared his throat. "I wanted to thank you properly and in person."

"You're welcome."

"I'll always be a friend, John."

…

"You've found the fifth." Sherlock concludes as he opens the door for Lestrade to come in. "I figured he was acting quicker because he was against a clock."

"Sherlock?"

"The man you are looking for is named Alastair Kent, he was released from a mental hospital four years ago." Lestrade looked at the picture Sherlock handed him.

"How?"

"He was easy after I found her." Sherlock hopped of his chair and walked to the wall, where dozens of tacks held up a mess of information.

"Wilma Taylor."

"Who's she?" Lestrade sighed as he scanned the wall. Sherlock let out an annoyed sigh and hit the middle of the wall with his hand. "The connection!" he paused. "and number seven." He turned away. "and dying from breast cancer."

"Yvonne Wright is the sixth target, let me know when you find her." He stalked to the couch before wrapping his robe around himself and falling into it. He rested his feet on top of the armrest.

"Now get out, I've got a more pressing case to think about."

"Finally, silence." He moaned out as Lestrade closed the door behind him. He closed his eyes and let out a deep breath and let his mind palace build itself. Now he would be able to focus on the problem that had been haunting him.

John.

He snapped out of his mind palace with a loud groan of annoyance. He needed to focus. He needed…

Sherlock pulled up his sleeve as he slapped on a nicotine patch. But it wasn't enough; this was a two patch problem. He paced. A three patch problem. He closed his eyes as his palace began to settle, he knocked ideas away before sighing. A four patch problem.

John knew he was leaving.

That much was obvious, from the speed of the text and the contents. _Goodbye._ It wasn't an accidental overdose. Couldn't be, John was also in the medical profession, he would know what it was like, and even if he didn't he would know the symptoms to look out for. Obvious. It wouldn't be a purposeful overdose. John had eaten that night, based on the contents of his stomach. It was a cheap canned dinner as well. If he was planning it he would have eaten nothing to make it easier for his body to succumb or a lavish meal as his last. John only ate canned goods in an extreme rush.

It was an overdose medically, but John didn't have an overdose.

If someone wanted to kill John there were more efficient and for sure ways. Guns, knives, blunt objects. So this was done to send a message, but there was no message. He sorted through the drugs looking for anything, then to the date. His hands were blurs as they discarded idea after idea.

The only thing that was let was the image of the body they claimed to be John's, but it couldn't be John's because John wasn't dead. It was a body. It couldn't be John's body.

Yes. That's what John's message was for. Sherlock's eyes opened wide. John was telling him he was leaving and not by choice. Someone convinced him to leave, more likely forced, but who-

And once again all the answers pointed towards Moriarty. He had thought he was jumping to conclusion before but he was right. Sherlock smirked wickedly and closed his eyes again. It was time to find Moriarty.

**End**

Truthfully, I wish I could have done the 'revelation' a bit better, but it's done. Thoughts?


	10. a Medal

**TheDarkestShinobi: **Next chapter up!

Okay, before you read this, youtube "Beatbox in a car from Ali G indahouse movie" and watch it. I had to throw something in here from that. I just had to.

**Start**

"You've been given a medal." Mycroft announced as he walked into the room. John stood at his entrance but didn't offer a salute. He was in his formal uniform, having been summoned that morning, and gently smoothed down the sides. The officer next to Mycroft presented the box of black velvet that no doubt held the aforementioned.

The officer took quick steps towards him and John straightened further as his face set into the Captain. Mycroft took two steps forward and watched the two pivot in sync to face each other. The officer used one white gloved hand to open the box and despite temptation John kept looking straight ahead and not at it.

"No ceremony," Mycroft apologized. "You know why. You don't mind, do you?" He wasn't really asking so John didn't answer. He felt the medal being pinned on his uniform next to his previous one. As soon as it set the box was closed and presented to John. John ran his fingers over the case and nodded his thanks as the officer before him saluted. John brought his arm up.

"Thank you for your bravery and service." John lowered his arm and the other followed. They both shared a smile before the other did a 180 and walked out of the room.

"It would have been nice," John admitted after the other left. "The ceremony" he clarified at Mycroft's glance.

"Ah," but he said nothing else on the matter.

"So, how'd you give a medal to a dead man?" he resisted the urge to see it once again, there would be time for that later.

"Complicated." He said with a sigh as he turned his face away from John. "but it was equally insisted that you receive one" obviously from Alec "and that you remain a secret." John scrunched his eyebrows as his head drew back, who wants his identity a secret?

"Can" he closed his eyes as he swallowed "I ever go back?"

Mycroft paused and John could tell that he didn't know. Mycroft wasn't in control of it. The British government without control?

"I suppose so." John decided to let it go. He was the one who agreed to die. Nasty business that was, the shouting and throwing; it felt great though. The puking didn't, but he knew Mycroft, _or someone_, left a lot of money for the landlady so he didn't feel too bad about it.

The body they left was so similar to his own that he felt the need to check his own pulse and looked in a mirror. She had been very thorough; maybe too thorough for the British government.

…

He jumped off the dumpster with his jacket fluttering. He shook his head and dug into his pockets to dig out a piece of paper and a pen. Sherlock started to walk away with long strides as he crossed off another location on the sheet of paper with his pen. The wind made his hair fly about and made the paper difficult to hold but he crossed it off holding it against his black glove. There were four other places scribbled out messily above the one his pen hovered over.

There were two more possible places Moriarty could be, they stood out in black pen on the bottom of the paper. He pocketed the paper as he glanced around the yard before pulling his coat higher and the cuffs to cover his neck.

John thought it made him look cool and mysterious.

John…

"I'll find you." He promised as he walked away.

…

The bar was a series of patterns now. Every man in his group, with the exception of Dessler who was no longer with them, had insisted on buying him a drink. It was rude to say no and therefore John had to hold onto the bar for good measure. He was laughing, he was laughing so hard and he can't even remember what the joke was, probably him. The chips and burger in his stomach did nothing to quell the fact that he wanted food. Jesse turned him around on the stool before he could order another meal.

"Alec said you karate chopped 'em real good." Peter said and though John didn't respond a few of the other boys started doing their own impressions.

"Congrats," Jason said again slapping a hand on the other's shoulders. "You are the man."

"Then sing for the man!" John sat up and nodded at that. He started gesturing towards Jason.

"Rap! Do it!" He laughed harder and clapped twice before giving the guy a thumbs up.

"You are gone Watson," Rob said with a roaring laugh.

"Come on" John seemed to whine "do the freestyle!"

"Okay, okay, okay." Jason stood straight up and held his hands outward. He smiled and shook his head, eyes closed "I can totally freestyle, right now, but someone has to give me a beat." John giggles looking down while the others look around. John curls his fingers and brings a hand to his mouth before shaking his head from side to side. The men freeze at the beat boxing before cheering.

"JOHNNY BOY!"

"WATSON!"

"Dude got skills!"

Jason holds up a hand to get them to shut up. John lifted his head with an exaggerated shake as a challenge and Jason laughed before using his hands to tell John to keep going.

"_Imma J to the A S"_ he started as he swayed.

_I'm always on_

_And the sound's from my main man_

_I call 'im John"_

And they rapped and partied, none of them knowing this would be their last night with the good doctor.

…

Sherlock sighed as he heard his phone vibrating from the other side of the room. He lolled his head over to stare in its directions.

"Mrs. Hudson!" he called out before letting out another sigh. "Mrs. Hudson." He groaned and then sighed. "Useless." He rose to his feet and let his robe fall open as he took the few steps to where it was. He picked it up, pressing the button on the side and it lit up.

_Checked the location you gave me, Moriarty is not there-M_

He dropped the phone onto his bed as he rolled his shoulders and then his head. Then he laughed; a deep dark chuckle that didn't stop until he needed to breathe.

**End**

Thoughts?


	11. Spider

**TheDarkestShinobi: **review! (please); send me prompts, anything!

**Start**

Two sets footsteps echoed through the hall. One was the sound of work shoes, a click-click; the other belongs to a set of heavy combat boots in light feet, quick thuds. The sound was broken by another set of protests from the shorter.

"I need you to be quiet and listen." Mycroft cut the other off as he stopped semmingly randomly in the hall.

"You pulled me out," John looked away before shaking his head and locking eyes with the other. "They could need me." John was adamant but stopped at the others expression. "Mycroft?" Mycroft sighs grips his umbrella tighter. John would never know why the man carried it indoors.

"John," The other started in a pleading voice, "please," another pause "for England." John narrows his eyes and Mycroft looks down before up. "Its Moriarty, he's threatening to put some kind of poison in our systems if you don't meet him now." Mycroft sees John's eyes soften in understanding and turns to push open the doors they stopped in front of. Mycroft pushes open the door without any other warning and John looks to see Moriarty sitting against the desk with a smile.

"Hello Captain!" John's face sets into stone and he hears the door close behind him. "Had I known you looked this good in a uniform I would have left you my number." John didn't respond and Moriarty's eyes took him in head to toe. "Oh and another medal I see, must have had to do with Mr. Green." John's fists are clenched and he has half a mind to reach for his gun and end the git now. Moriarty still spoke in a joking manner, as if they were friends."Well, to business then."

"What is it?" Moriarty didn't respond right away, "You're threatening England." John tilted his head but other than that stayed the perfect soldier, Moriarty loved that.

"Oh, right, well, I could have phoned you, but you'd be less likely to agree." Still chatting as if they were friends and there weren't lives in the balance.

"How did you know I was alive?" He just smiles and that's the only thing John gets as an answer. Moriarty holds up a clear circular object in his left hand between his pointer and middle finger.

"So I'm going to give you this earpiece and _you're_ going to do everything I say." And in John's hands it looked like an ordinary earpiece. He feels anger and barely suppressed the urge to punch the other.

"What? So I'm your new assassin now?" Moriarty tilts his head in thought.

"No," he sounds like he was debating it but John knew better. "no, killing people isn't as fun as what I'm about to do to him." _Him,_ of course it always came back to him.

"Sherlock." Moriarty's face dropped into one of annoyance at the name.

"Sherlock knows you're not dead. He can't find any mistakes-because I haven't made any-but he's sure you're alive." John didn't let it show but he was kind of happy. But wait…

"So you-" It made sense; the precision, and why he had to die. Who else would want Sherlock to think he was dead?

"Of course, the whole thing has been my doing." He held his hands outwards.

"Why?" John clutched the earpiece in his hand as he held his to his side.

"Because every good story needs a betrayal."

"Betrayal?" he echoed in question. His stomach may have flipped and he may have swallowed a ball of ice all at once.

"Yes, a betrayal. He is on his way to where he thinks I am, and I'll be there shortly. So will you." John tilted his heard to the side and let the question hang in the air again.

"He's going to try and kill me, shoot me for your honor or something or other." And Moriarty pulled his lips apart and down, more like a grimace than a smile.

"And why shouldn't I let him?" John's voice held a dangerous edge Moriarty made a note to explore.

"Oh." Moriarty let out a breath. "BORING!" He exclaimed like a child before his face changed into one of derision. "It must be dull in those little minds of yours." He spread his arms out and spun in a slow circle "I have orchestrated this, obviously with a threat so big and feasible that the British government is down on its knees." His face held no joy or amusement anymore; he was a criminal mastermind at work. "They have complied, so now," he lifted his pointer "all this, Dr. Watson," and pointed to John with a malicious smile "is now on your hands." It took a few seconds before John ceded by taking the earpiece and placing it in his ear. Moriarty let a side of his mouth quirk up.

"I see it's not all wasted."

"What would you have me do?" He was scared Moriarty noticed.

"Protect me from Sherlock, shooting him if it comes down to it." John shook his head.

"You have men."

"As I was saying, RUDE! Convince him you've betrayed him. Convince him he's lost you, and not to death," he walked closer with the sile of a madman and shook his head. "Oh no, to something worse, to me." John swallowed and his posture stiffened. They were hairs apart and Moriarty entertained the thought of grabbing the man's collar. It was a shame for the doctor; he could be so much more intimidating if he was taller.

"And If I don't." He would, the solider would do anything for England.

"I'll leave that to your imagination."

…

"What have you done to him!?" Sherlock yells as he approaches Moriarty, who is standing on the edge of the roof. Moriarty turns and Sherlock had a gun trained on Moriarty's face, but Moriarty simply steps down with a small smile and walks a little closer to the enraged man leisurely, with his hands clasped behind his back.

John had been given a hand gun and a close range automatic; it was to make sure he would have to be close to the two. The earpiece was emitting static now but instructions could come through at any second and he'd have to follow them. He stands too still for a man, his mind in overdrive. He was feeling for wind, but there was nothing to affect a shot this close, there usually wasn't. Where could he shoot to cause the least damage? Could he even shoot Sherlock?

A red dot appears on the back of Sherlock's head for an instant, but John watched it with dismay. It was a clear message from Moriarty; another threat. Laser sight wasn't accurate, and a trained sniper would never need one. He learned that in Afghanistan, having the pleasure of knowing an American, Chris Kyle, who was very proficient. It drew attention to the people next to the target and gave away the snipers location to anyone in the vicinity. Therefore it had one purpose and one purpose only.

A threat.

"He has no intention to shoot, stand down." His earpiece informed him. He was undetectable in these shadows so he stayed and watched, his finger hovering over the trigger he prayed he didn't have to use.

"Oh, hello Sherlock." Moriarty sends Sherlock a smile and receives a glare in return.

"Enough, Moriarty, What have you done?" Moriarty's hands find his pockets and pull them up as he shrugs looking left and right.

"Me? To John?" He looks taken aback "Nothing." He lets his shoulders fall and Sherlock tilts his head as a frown settles on his face.

"You're lying to me." John has missed that voice.

"Am I? What have I done to him, you ask. You are the one who drove him away." The lines in Sherlock's face became valleys as he sneered. "Overdose, was it? Hard to imagine."

"We both know he is not dead, and if he is you killed him. Completely textbook, clever, but it wasn't clever to target my best friend."

"Intent rising, John." It was, but John wanted to see more

"No danger yet," he lied "give it a moment more." And it unnerved him to no end to know he was commanding Moriarty's men. Or rather Jim, being that that was what he was instructed to address him by.

"I'm not playing games, Moriarty."

"And yet you played with matches with your pet John." Moriarty looked to the side, 'I told you so' written on his face.

"He is **not** a pet." John could tell that tone, Sherlock was about to get violent, and he had been told if a single Westwood thread was out of place the bets were off.

"Sherlock." He tried to keep his voice even and threatening and was satisfied. Sherlock let out a small huff of air of relief. There it was, the voice he had been aching to hear, only much more serious, dark, deadly. "Put down your weapon." And traitorous.

"No." It was disbelief, not disobedience that coated his word. His hand shook and his shoulders slumped.

"Oh, Sherlock," Moriarty looked up and away and took his hands out of his pocket "You're right, John is alive and well. See for yourself."

**End. **

Thoughts?


	12. Burn

**ThesDarkestShinobi: **one of the chapters that either makes or breaks the story.

**Start**

"_No." It was disbelief, not disobedience that coated his word. His hand shook and his shoulders slumped._

"_Oh, Sherlock," Moriarty looked up and away and took his hands out of his pocket "You're right, John is alive and well. See for yourself."_

"Convince him, John." The earpiece needlessly instructed.

Sherlock turned to see him. Hard eyes, strong but not stiff posture, gun against his shoulder with ease, same military haircut. He's using a blade razor now, hasn't had a nightmare in weeks. Wear on the shoes suggested lots of running in formation. Shoelace stained with blood. No crease over eyes, he had been having a lot of fun within the last three days. Sherlock noted it was rather difficult to swallow the sudden build-up of saliva in his mouth.

"Another trick?" And there was something in his voice John couldn't identify. Defeat? "Mind games?"

"No trick here, Sherlock." John answered for Moriarty-Jim-for Jim. "Now, drop the gun," Sherlock paused. "Don't make me shoot you." _Please don't make me shoot you._

There was no admiration, no attraction. No tremor in voice, no misdirection of his gun. His eyes never shifted, his stance indicates preparation for recoil. John will shoot. With that realization Sherlock released his hold on his weapon; it clattered to the ground and John lowered his weapon slightly. Sherlock's shoulder fell. John was still ready to raise the weapon against him.

"Why?" Desperation seeped into Sherlock's voice and John doubted he cared at that moment.

"Why?" John echoed in disbelief and could see Moriarty's smile split his face open. "All your deductive skills and you need me to tell you?" He didn't. Sherlock answered, as always, and hated himself for it.

"You felt unappreciated. It's always me they see, news, girls," he tilted his head, "boys, given rather recent revelations. I call you stupid-"

"He is pretty stupid" Moriarty chimed in. Really!? John raised his gun with anger in his eyes and they both stilled. Jim's smiled returned.

"And then that last night, I-" He stopped himself. He let him go because he meant too much. He _made_ him go.

"Yes." John's voice was ice. It hurt him to see Sherlock like this, shock, disbelief and no answers. John was acting, a bit. Sherlock would be able to read if he wasn't really angry so he had to be. He was.

"Your psychologist said you were broken." She had said it was all his fault.

"I did go to her," John paused and lowered the gun "first." Moriarty planned all of this, didn't he? He was a fly caught in Moriarty's web, squirming just how the other wanted. "Then Jim" Sherlock's eyes flew wide "came to get me."

"No." he refused to believe it. "NO. **NO!**" Sherlock turned and grabbed Moriarty's collar-Jim's collar.

"Take him down now!" The earpiece flared to life but John was already moving.

"Hypnotism? Cloning? Did you threaten all of England? You **will** tell-"

John grabbed Sherlock's shoulder and spun him. John placed a perfect punch to the other's face. It hurt much more than last time, John was definitely in training, killing again. Also, the affection was gone. Sherlock looked up with rapidly fading vision to see John fretting over Moriarty with more concern than an employee would have for a boss and Moriarty pulling John in for a kiss.

He was grateful for the darkness.

"What was that?!" John exclaimed as soon as he knew Sherlock was unconscious. He flexed his fingers and wiped his lips, but the other was unharmed and England would be safe for now, even if Sherlock would hate him forever.

"That, my dear Watson, was the spark." John was tight lipped and looked down to Sherlock with a sigh and suddenly Moriarty had a completely different idea on how to fuel the fire he started.

"Do you still have a phone?" John reached into his pocket and held it up.

_Pick up your brother – M_

John moved to take it back but Jim slipped it into his pocket as he turned and walked towards the door to go back down.

"Come on, John, unless you plan to jump."

…

"Sherlock, Sherlock?" He opened his eyes groggily to see a woman with long blonde hair fretting over him. He held out a hand to get her to back up and he attempted to stand. He almost returned to the roof; the hands that held him up were familiar and he turned his throbbing head to see his brother. Mycroft? Why was he being so… familial? Guilt, guilt for-his thoughts stopped at the pain.

"Moriarty told me you were here." He said before starting to say something, deciding against it and leaving. Anthea-or rather Christie, her real name was obvious from the way her hair fell, smiled at him. He watched Mycroft leaving, something was off; he tried to think about it but found his thoughts to be cloudy.

"How are you?"

How was he? He was fine now, well, he may be mildly concussed and his eyes would blacken within a day. His teeth were thankfully all there and not bleeding. His cheek would hurt for the next week at least.

"I'm fine."

But he wasn't. Oh he wasn't fine at all.

_Jim came to get me._

He felt sick in a way he hadn't in years. His hands felt cold and his insides burned; so did his eyes. He started to quicken his shallow breaths, trying to get more air into his lungs. He heard his name being called but her voice wasn't hers, it was John's. John's voice had been oh so cold. He hated him. John _hated_ him. How could he ever be fine?

_No trick here Sherlock._

Oh, but there had to be. There had to be something. He raised his hands to grab onto the back of his head as he curled into himself. He rocked forward and heard retreating footsteps. He wouldn't cry now, no, not now. He squeezed tighter and ignored the shooting pain in his head. He closed his eyes so hard it hurt. Too much. This is why he wanted John out; because he knew he made him vulnerable. He let out a ragged breath.

Ignore the pain. He had to ignore the pain. Just transport. Ignore that John caused the pain. John would never hurt him. John was always there, always supportive. His brain wouldn't let him shut it out. He couldn't delete. No, no, that wasn't John. John couldn't hurt him, right?

Everything hurt. Sherlock let out another breath that didn't sound like a sob, it _didn't, _and tried not to focus on the fact that everything burned.

**End**

Thoughts?


	13. Part of the web

**TheDarkestShinobi: **Enjoy!

Moriarty looked up from the newspaper he was reading as John bursts through the doors. He had some of the other men show him to where he'd be sleeping and around the general premises. He hadn't expected to be found but he hadn't ruled it out. He was showing potential.

John was in his military uniform, beige boots laced all the way up and desert camouflage pants. He also wore a beige shirt Jim was sure he filled out more years ago. So John didn't wear any other clothes Jim provided. He knew that would happen, which is why his men picked up the backpack that had the rest of John's current life in it. John would get used to it eventually, he would get used to a lot of things in the next month.

John's face was in anger, and Moriarty knew it would be. John could be the perfect soldier when lives were at sake but the second it was over John would relive it. John's been reliving the moments from the roof for the past two hours. Moriarty folded the paper as he watched John shaking with anger. He smiled and tilted his head.

"When" Moriarty takes delight in the tone he's using, looks like he is going to bring out the soldier much earlier than planned, but that rather was the point of the last month "does it end?" It's a demand and almost a growl and Moriarty knows he would be an excellent leader for his men in due time.

Moriarty stood, exerting his height dominance, yet placed his hands behind his back as if he was open and listening. He took two steps forward, knowing how his steps echoed in this room.

"There is a terrorist group planning to bomb a plane sometime in June, if my demand was heeded, it stops then."

"A plane." John repeats as his fists clench and unclench. He's a ball of untamed rage Moriarty wants to pop.

"Among other things." He waved his hand about before placing it behind his back again. "but that was the most fun." He puts emphasis on the fun and notes that John's hands don't unclench. He's so close to being punched but John would never, not with other people's lives in the balance.

"A terrorist group," John's head jerked back in realization "the group I've been hunting?"

"Hunting!" using hunting as a term for people was an excellent thing. He shook his head with a smile, "I do like this side of you; want to hunt people for me?" John's eyes narrowed, which is exactly what was expected, _this_ time. "Yes, my group of course. So I know what it would take to stop them."

"You're insane." The anger is funneling into resignation. Moriarty pouted. He is finally able to realize the situation. Shame. No breaking Watson today.

"You've used such nicer words with Sherlock." He remarks and sees the way John's eyes shift.

"So I have" John shifted, nervousness betraying him. "What demands did you make?"

"You."

"I'm sorry, me?"

"Yes, your fake death, you back in the military, domestic, for a month, then my guard for another." Now John had the look of a puppet who thought he had a say. "That was my only demand." John's eyebrows furrowed in confusion. That was Mycroft.

"Oh, cat's out of the bag isn't it." He looked like he was caught in a lie but it was all an act, he never revealed more than he wanted to. "Mycroft has been in on it from the start."

The air seemed to grow tense as Moriarty took a step closer to him. He brought his arms forward as he stalked. "I said I would burn the heart out of him." He tilts his head with a sinister expression as he used his hand to pull John forward by his chin. John wanted to hurt him so much, especially after today and he could. John could easily kill him in 10 (well maybe 11, depending on how creative the doctor was feeling at the moment) different ways before anyone would stop him. John wouldn't lift a finger. Moriarty reveled in his power over the other. John wouldn't do anything to him because of his web. It was exhilarating. John's face settled into neutral. He didn't even try to fight back. **GOOD**!

Pets can be trained. They can learn their place.

John will learn his place.

"And despite what he has tried to convince you of, you are the heart of him." No reaction. He squeezed the bones, and leaned a little closer to the doctor. "And I could have killed you, but that would have been easy" he pauses "and boring." He adds as an afterthought. John was on his tip toes now; fighting, successfully, to keep his breathing even. "Instead, I will make you _burn_ him." Done with his threats Jim shoved John as far as he could with the hand on his chin and John only took a step back before straightening. He was strong indeed. Ordinary, but strong. Such wasted potential.

Jim could teach him the way of the devils and lure him away from the angels. That would be the best way to light an eternal flame in Sherlock.

"Now," he let himself back away from his darkness and straightens out his suit. John is still watching; his perfectly stone face is up again. "I have no use for you unless Sherlock comes back around so you can keep up the military training," John doesn't nod but Moriarty expected that, he is listening and that's what matters. Moriarty's point was understood very well and he wouldn't be having any more outbursts from John Watson.

"You will also be treating my men as needed," he'd have John start with the healing before the killing. He would have to ease John in. "but you can't leave." The smile seemed friendly again and his tone lightened with ease to a teasing tone "I can't have him seeing you," he paused "unchaperoned."

**End.**

Review!


	14. Disavantage

**TheDarkestShinobi: **Give me some Sherlock prompts!

_All lives end,_

Everything was a fog.

Sherlock woke up on his bed, all compliments of his brother he was sure; and just stayed there, staring at the ceiling for what must've been hours. He replayed the scene over and over again, looking for some sort of clue that it was faked. The body had fooled him, no doubt it fooled Molly. John was alive, and that relieved him to no end, but John also hated him.

The burn in his body wasn't as intense as it was before, or maybe he had gotten used to it. He can't get rid of the image of John holding a gun, pointing it at him, John ready to shoot. Why didn't he? If John really hated him that much, why not just shoot? Sherlock feels like he's been shot, it hurts, it burns and he'll never fully heal.

After an amount of time he isn't sure of he stands and walks towards the living room. He pauses in the door and just stares at the couch John used to sit in, at the television, where John introduced him to Star Wars and crap telly. John had been his friend, his only friend. Sherlock remembered that day that they met.

John was like them, an idiot, boring, but then he wasn't. He was a conductor of light, someone who thought he was brilliant and wasn't afraid to say it. He was a soldier, a killer, who never wanted anyone hurt. He was a gentle man of power and strength; a man of action who could write their journey so fluidly; one who could keep up with Sherlock better than anyone else. John was the only one who would call Sherlock an idiot with love.

Because that is what it was; hindsight is always 20/20.

More than that, more than all of that, John was a man that looked at him and saw something good; something worth killing for. Now, now… Now John looked at him and saw… Sherlock clenched the doorframe, and didn't continue the thought. Love was a viscous motivator and a terrible thing to lose. Sherlock threw it away.

_All hearts are broken._

He heard his phone buzzing and stared at it. The screen lit up as it moved on the table. Sherlock stared until it stopped, started and stopped again. He watched the screen light up before dulling and turning black. He couldn't delete. He didn't want to delete. He had thought John would leave for a while, he didn't expect this, no one could have expected this.

The phone buzzed again and Sherlock closed his eyes. It stopped and he straightened his back taking a deep breath. He let go of the wall and walked forward, picking up his phone and his coat before walking out the door.

…

_John is alive. Help me find him. SH_

Mycroft put the phone down before answering it. He was stuck in a position he wasn't sure how to get out of. His brother was asking for help. Help against Moriarty. He sent back "What? How?" and waited. This was going to blow up in his face soon, and he prayed to make it through.

…

_John is alive. SH_

Lestrade stared at the text in shock. He had been calling Sherlock for a while, nothing on the Bride Collector but this crime baffled the DI. The woman, dead in the middle of the bed, didn't seem to be dead. There was no blood and no sign of a scuffle, and even Anderson said to call Sherlock.

John is alive? He stared at it even as he heard Sherlock's voice behind him.

"He's with Moriarty." Lestrade's jaw dropped as he turned to follow Sherlock up the stairs. Sherlock explained his theory on Moriarty's crime network and what he may have said to John to get him to join. He mentioned seeing him on the rooftop and left out that John had convinced Sherlock, and that Sherlock still felt like the world was only shaded.

It took Sherlock eight minutes to determine what killed her and give him a suspect list. It was cold and calculating and without Watson it was haunting. Sherlock didn't spare insult or compliant as he deduced. The personality that was present with Watson was gone, no smile, no warmth. It was as if the past year had never happened. Donavan and Anderson were watching with disdain, more so than usual.

Sherlock looked up with a blank face. Why did he even text Lestrade and Mycroft? They were useless, they had always been. He turns and begins to walk away when Anderson opens his mouth.

This time, Sherlock doesn't even pay attention to what the insult is, he doesn't care what Anderson has to say to him. He only cares that Anderson, a failure in every respect, has the nerve to call him anything. His head is pounding; he must've forgotten to eat again. His stomach is churning and he snarls. He feels the anger coil inside of him viciously and he has no desire to contain it.

There is no one to say it's not good. There is no one here to disappoint. They all think he is a freak.

He slams Anderson into the wall before he realizes that was his intention. The loud bang and Anderson's wide fearful eyes bring barely Sherlock back to reality. Sherlock blinks twice, the buzzing crime scene now silent. He pulls his head back; it was leaning forward dangerously, and lets out a deep breath. He is not used to being angry or out of control. Then, slowly, he lets his hands release the front of Anderson's blue suit, although the material stays raised where Sherlock held it. Suddenly he pulls back as if he was burned. Anderson's still looking at him in shock and fear. He is repulsed and scared.

Donavan and Lestrade are stunned into silence. They aren't even thinking, neither is he, and it's refreshing. He takes a step back and feels the need to apologize, but he doesn't want to and no one will make him so he just turns swiftly and walks away. Now the thoughts consume him again, everyone is thinking too loudly.

"Next time Lestrade," He shouts as he leaves, his body feeling like a nerve "Make sure it's worth my time." He slams the door on his way out.

_Caring is not an advantage._

**END: **Thoughts?


	15. Favorites

**TheDarkestShinobi: **I wrote out the scene like 3 times before and lost all three copies. Ugh! [also chapter 7 edited to show a bit of the funeral!]

John sat on the edge of his bed as he tried to make sense of the world again. He rubbed his hands over his face before letting his legs bounce. This was all a bit not good. He closed his eyes and remembered Moriarty's hand on his chin. He clenched his fist as the desire to beat the sod came back to him. He let out a ragged breath as he tried to focus.

Moriarty had men, powerful men, powerful men in powerful places. Not only that, he had motive and means and right now his cooperation was the only thing keeping Britain safe from the madman. He stood suddenly. He needed to do something to get this anger out. He shook his head. Breath Watson, breathe.

He made him hurt Sherlock.

He hurt Sherlock.

He wanted to scream, to hit things, preferably Moriarty.

He remembered being pulled to his tip toes and the glint in Moriarty's eyes as he spoke to him. Moriarty was beyond insane, beyond reason and he was without help in here. John let himself settle back onto the bed. There was nothing he could do. No retaliation was worth it. What if every time he hesitated Moriarty killed someone? No, he couldn't risk that. He had to be the perfect little _whatever_ Moriarty wanted him to be.

John jumped to his feet, ready and alert, as the door opened. There was a man, short, dark skinned, skinny man with wide smile with a backpack.

"Hey, John, me and the guys are going to the gym to let out some steam." John really needed to let out some steam. "and we were wondering if you wanted to come."

"No." He meant for it to come out harshly, but it came out as a threat. The man closed the door and left but John saw the emotions flash across his face.

It was good. He was a force to be reckoned with and the men should know that. The only one who could tell him anything was the man with the bomb and the poison. He paced about the room before dropping into a pushup position. He may as well sweat the frustration out, otherwise he'd beat the madman and England would suffer.

…

Sherlock pulled the trigger again.

And again.

And again.

His clouded brain would clear in that fraction of second, that small little reprieve from the thoughts that wouldn't go away. He dropped the gun and turned to the wall behind him. He placed his hands on the pictures of the women, their files their life. The fog was back. No. He just needed to _**think**_**. **He slammed his head on the wall and blinked twice as the pain exploded behind his eyes. There, clear.

He stared at the information until the fog came back.

_**Thunk**_

Much better. He let his eyes fall open as he placed a hand on the latest victims face.

"I've got it!" he shouts as he turns around "Call Lestrade…" he swallows as he realizes what he managed to escape in the last second. His lip trembles as he turns and picks up his phone. He falls into the couch as soon as the message is sent.

Lestrade runs up the steps and Sherlock gets up. He explains the case to Lestrade. Their connection was Isabel Smith, a woman who Charles Stoltz was in love with. She said no, must be because she was meant for God. He should return her. She is the seventh, the other woman are all leading up to her. It was such an interesting case, well, it would be if he could bring himself to care.

The place they died reflects their work.

Susan Doyle was the next victim.

"He probably already has her." Sherlock concluded in monotone. Lestrade ran a hand through his hair.

"Where?"

"Here." Sherlock pointed to a spot on the wall and the DI called it in.

"Come on, let's go over."

"No." Sherlock slumped on the couch as he answered. Lestrade sighed before shaking his head and yanking the other up by his arm.

"Let's go."

…

"You understand that God's loves you most of all."

"Yes," she agreed as the drug flowed through her system.

"Oh Susan, you are making me so happy."

"Aren't I?" she smiled back and let her head rest against the table. "I like to make people happy."

…

Sherlock's long legs eat up the stairs, but not as fast as the trained ones. He watches the team file in and can listen to them chatter about opening the door. He takes the steps two at a time as he lets his coat open.

…

"You drugged me." Her voice is flat and even as she fights the drug in her system. She feels him shaving her and wishes she could just move.

"I showed you the light." His voice is smooth as he concentrates on her golden legs. She felt herself burning on the inside. "Oh, Susan, you were so agreeable before."

"Don't you dare give me more of that shit." She growls out. "How many others have you done this too? Huh?" He ran his hand down her leg looking for spots he missed. He moved his hand up between her thighs.

"You stop that right now!" She screamed out and he paused. She was seeing flashes of someone else. She let out a breath. "Delivering me to God? Is that what you said?" He nodded as he took a step back. She looked away from him up to the ceiling. Her lips moved as she looked up. 'Oh God, please let me live' She then looked back to him

"Oh hush dear, no need for tears here, today is joyous."

"If I were truly God's favorite, he'd smite ou for hurting me. Then he would save me."

She laughed as she looked towards him.

"He's going to save me and stop you." She says with confidence. "He won't let you hurt anymore. I'm not scared of you."

He lets out a breath to calm himself.

…

Sherlock hears grunts, then a door being forced open. Two screams. Female and male. By the time he gets to the door the murderer is on the floor on his knees.

"Oh, my God," The woman repeats sobbing in relief. Sherlock is fine to let her stand there naked, but Lestrade offers her his coat. Sherlock observes the scene, noting he was right and turns to leave.

"Sherlock Holmes!" The man shouts his name and Sherlock turns back to him with boredom. "I knew it was you! You're hurting God!" He looked to all of them then as if they would suddenly share his madness. He stood then and ran towards her, the gun not an inhibitor for him any longer. Another officer knocked him down and held the gun to his head. Sherlock scoffed.

"You, you, you're the one who found me." The girl's eyes jumped to him, taking it all in.

"Obvious." He countered. He just wanted to get home.

"These are his favorites, his brides; you're keeping them from him." Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"How many were you going to kill?"

"_Deliver_" he stressed. "7" spot on then. He turned to leave again when Charles started laughing.

"He's keeping yours!"

"Mine?" Sherlock didn't turn but stood up straight.

"You're keeping God's favorites, so he's keeping yours." Lestrade started to curse.

"You're talking about John." Sherlock kept his voice even. "Moriarty has John." Oh that hurt to say. The fog of the world was getting thicker; it was getting harder to breathe.

"Moriarty is just a tool of God." The voice spoke from behind him. "He is going to fix John from what you've done to him."

Sherlock left then. He wouldn't let the other's words affect him.

_fix John from what you've done to him_

**Get Out.**

Maybe he had.

Suddenly the world was in a sharp focus. He looked around as he took a deep breath. Enough of this. He was going to find John and either John was going to stop this ridiculousness and come home, or-Sherlock let out a breath. There was no or. John was coming home.

**End:** Reviews are love!


	16. On Call

**TheDarkestShinobi:** Hey guys, I went on vacation so I didn't really write anything, but I'm back now!

Sherlock stood over the man with hatred.

"You work for Moriarty." It wasn't a question, but the man had still tried to deny it. It was obvious from the twitch in his left hand. That and the burns on his hands consistent with a mid-salary level job and his expensive shoes. Also, the man couldn't even identify what they were trying to steal. Hired. He didn't even need to look any further, although he could if he wanted too.

He had stopped a gang already and this was his second group. Eventually he'd get it out of one of them. He was close to breaking one just a few days ago, but accidentally sent the man into shock. Lestrade was starting to get worried. Donavan wanted him arrested.

He hears the footsteps just in time and avoid the blow that was coming to the back of his head. He sidesteps as he quickly looks up the man's body. Knee, artery, hip, ribs, lung. The man was top heavy. He'd come in with a heavy swing which Sherlock could easily block. He could take advantage of his height and give the man a quick cross jab to the cheek. The man would bring up his arms to defend his face, leaving his body open. Sherlock could then use an uppercut to fracture ribs, and then come forward with a straight punch to break them. The man would be stunned, offering a perfect opportunity for a kick that would knock him back into the wall, where he would hit his head on the buildings metal display and fall unconscious.

The man came forward with a heavy swing and the fight went as predicted. The third man wasn't expected, though he should have been and that blow nearly renders Sherlock unconscious. He lets out a groan as his hands settle in front of him. This fight is a bit more than Sherlock can handle. And the man he was on top of has taken the second one from view while Sherlock was preoccupied.

Sherlock is thankful to hear Lestrade's voice, and tries to catch the man running from them. He sees Lestrade aim and notes the bullet entering the side of the man who has now escaped.

"Go after him!" Sherlock shouts but Lestrade just holds out his arms to catch the other.

"It's not fatal, but he'd have to check into a hospital if he wanted to get enough care to live." Lestrade starts without mentioning Sherlock's state. Sherlock uses the other to get himself upright enough to lean on the wall.

"or have a doctor on call." Sherlock finishes the other's thought.

"John?"

"I fear." Sherlock pauses with a wheeze "I need your help, I can't say how much good you'll be, since you're all a bunch of idiots, but I could use all the help I can get right now."

"Including medical?" Lestrade's asks sternly.

"I'll be fine." He bites back.

…

"Doctor Watson?" John looked up from the floor as a man came through his door.

"What is it?" But he was already up and moving. He knew that look of pain and saw the blood on his fingertips. "Where?" The man turned and ran and John sprinted after him.

Almost a minute later John saw the patient in the medical room. The man had a bullet in his side and was bleeding profusely. John saw another fumbling with gauze and pushed him out of the way.

"What's your name?" John asked as he ripped the rest of the shirt open. The bullet was still in there, John could see it if he squinted. The man mumbled something and then groaned in pain. John reached behind him and grabbed throngs and a small blade. The wound was narrow and deep, which meant John would have to cut first. He was ready to cut when the same man who was fumbling with the gauze bumped into him.

"Get me some warm water." John instructed and watched the man nod and run. That should get him out of the way for a while, hopefully enough time for John to be done. He sliced and heard the man grunt in pain. John fished the bullet out rather easily after that and began the process of cleaning and stitching the wound.

"You're lucky you didn't get hit anyplace vital, I might not have made it to you in time." John could hear footsteps and knew the warm water was coming. He could wash his hands in it. John started gathering the supplies and instructed the other on how to let the wound heal best.

"My, my doctor Watson, how medieval of you." John turned to see it Jim standing at the door. "You do realize this isn't Afghanistan." John sucked his tongue. He didn't wash his hands or give the guy any painkillers "although that is probably a record for addressing a gunshot wound." John saw Jim jerk his head and the other man stood.

"Oh, no." John stopped him. "You're going to stay lying down for at least 4 hours; you shouldn't leave this bed until tomorrow morning." The man's eyes shifted between them. "Doctor's orders." John insisted as he turned to Jim daring him to disagree. Jim could have made him walk anyway, John didn't have power here, but he'd allow the doctor a small victory. Jim turned and walked out. Besides, John may not have realized this, but turning to him like that _was_ asking permission.

"Then come along."

John followed.

"You're going to start treating my men. Most of them don't come back like that, but some do. You are acclimatized to all this so I expect the best medical care each time." John nodded. He could do that, he was a doctor. It was much better than the alternatives. "We have a very comprehensive medical room but if you feel it needs anything let me know."

For the next week, John's life fell into a rhythm. He trained and he healed and he spent more and more time with the evil mastermind.

He would be forced to listen to the workings, and Sherlock was mentioned less and less, but with more irritation. It gave John hope, but it also filled him with dread. By the second week, John was in charge of gathering and dispatching the men.

…

"Any desire to see Mycroft?"

John continued to stitch the man's eyebrow back together as he thought. Moriarty walked in during the brief silence. He was still in most of his suit but the jacket had been left upstairs somewhere. John took his eyes away from the man to briefly glance in the other's direction before refocusing at the task at hand.

"Depends on the purpose, I'm not going to go kill him."

"Shame." He looked at the other on the table, there were 16 stitches in his face, right along the side of his eyebrows, not a lot of blood, but John hadn't dabbed it away. Military experiences aside, it was skillful that he didn't need to see every aspect of the wound to treat it. John tied a double knot at the end of the 16th before releasing the eyebrow. They were tight stitches, which let Moriarty know it was a deep wound.

"I'll have you come anyway." He said as he watched John pat down the area removing the blood that had gathered. The bleeding had stopped for the most part and John told the man to be careful with how he recovered.

"Although, you are a much better doctor than the last one I had." He pursed his lips "I may just keep you." John could feel his body unwilling still under the threat, it was coiling and preparing for fight or flight. Unfortunately, neither was an option. Moriarty could very well decide to keep him here. John had never been a POW but he could imagine it felt just like this. He watched Moriarty grin before shooing the other out of the room.

"Sherlock is still trying to figure out why you left him." He rolled his eyes. "Touching, you two." He smiled and let out a small huff of air.

"He's gotten Lestrade involved and I'd hate to have to kill him." Not really.

"So Mycroft is going to have to tell Lestrade to stop." John said before letting a small teasing smile show, "Scared he'll find you?"

"Find me?" he looked amused "They all know I'm here." He used his hands to gesture to the room "No. They found me, they just can't touch me." He turned to leave and took a few steps before stopping. "Sometimes" John's smile flattened at that dangerous tone as he watched the other's back "you just have to remind people about that." John swallowed as Moriarty raised a hand in the air as he continued to walk away and then he flicked his wrist with a high pitched "Ta."

**TDS:** Review! I may have another chapter up tonight!


	17. Power Play

**TheDarkestShinobi: **A day late. Oh well. Enjoy and review!

It's been a weeks since he's been summoned to take care of a wound, the stitching the week before having been his last. He was starting to get restless and he was sure that was part of the plan. Still, he trains and sleeps and can't help but notice his body hardening.

John awakens at the sound of the door opening. He jumps out of bed and starts walking towards the sound in less than a second. He only lets himself relax when he realizes its Moriarty walking towards him. He leaves that revelation alone for the moment because Moriarty was never going to be someone that should make him relax.

Jim donned his usual attire, a full suit no doubt specifically tailored and Westwood. He's holding a suit on a hanger in his hand John takes it from him with confusion etched into his face. The suit looks expensive; now he didn't think there was such a thing as too much for a man like that but he didn't understand what he could have done to warrant such an expense.

"Westwood." Moriarty says in a sing song voice as he watches John take in the suit.

"For today?" John asks even as his mind tells him, obviously, but did Moriarty really have to buy him a suit?

"You have to look your best for the palace." Is all Moriarty would give as an answer and John takes an inhale as if to say something before letting it out.

"Right." He finally says with a nod. He looks away and Moriarty watches him rationalize the suit before shaking his head and walking away.

…

John steps out of the car before Moriarty does and pats down the jacket of his suit as the other steps out. Moriarty smiles up as he takes the building in and then smirks and jerks his head to the left.

"Isn't Mycroft going to send someone to get us?" John asks as he starts walking behind the mastermind.

"Yes," he answers with a smile, "but this is more fun." John continues to follow with a shake of his head. Crazy murdering psychopathic git. John was the wrong type of doctor for this.

Mycroft seemed more annoyed than anything else when he turned on the lights to see Moriarty already sitting in a chair with John standing off to his right. "They're here." He says aloud, probably for the benefit of the person on the other side of the earpiece.

"John." Mycroft acknowledges with a nod and a small tight smile.

"Mycroft," he responds in kind.

"Moriarty." Jim adds with a smile. John recognizes this Jim, this public face. There was no screaming, no childishness, just a hint of sass and a world of control. "Now that that's over with I've come to talk to you about Detective inspector Lestrade." Mycroft lets out a breath and John gets to see Mycroft in a different light now; this was the Mycroft without control of anything, submissive, compliant.

"What of him?" he asks as he subtly looks John up and down. It may have been petty, but John doesn't appreciate the concern, not now. Mycroft was the one who fed him to the beast. Mycroft also take the time to realize why John was here, Moriarty wants to show him off, like a trophy.

"He's starting to get a little _too_ curious, tell him to stop looking for Watson." The smile on Moriarty's face turned sinister. "And you should pay your brother a visit, tell him to stop too." This time Mycroft's lips tighten and John lets out a deep breath. "Oh, yes." He sounds like he had just discovered something, but unlike when he played with Sherlock, there's just one tone this time, the annoyed businessman. "One look at you and he'll know how you lied to him." Moriarty grins. _He'll know that you took the one thing Sherlock has ever wanted and gave it to me. _Mycroft knows this too, despite his best efforts; Moriarty reads it on his face. He gives them both a diplomatic smile as he closes his eyes for a second longer than it takes to blink.

"Come Doctor," Jim calls as he stands. "I'm done here."

John turns and follows, after all, he's now Moriarty's _**pet.**_

…

"I have recently become aware that you are trying to look further into John Watson's suicide." Lestrade nods with a hand on the back of his head. Mycroft leans on his umbrella in the office as he watches the DI come up with a good reason.

"Sherlock is sure John's alive." Mycroft raises the umbrella to look at the bottom before setting it back down.

"And you have a body, yes?" He counters in a smooth controlled voice. Lestrade sighs with another nod.

"It seems to match." He admits to the Holmes.

"So it would seem reasonable to assume you will stop wasting department resources on searching for a dead man?" Lestrade feels the anger coil inside of him.

"but-" he starts before Mycroft interrupts.

"Right?" he insists in a louder voice and Lestrade knows he isn't asking.

"Right." Lestrade cedes. Mycroft nods and turns away from the man before strolling out of the building and into a waiting black car.

He has one more stop today.

…

Sherlock stares at his phone. Lestrade thinks it's a dead end and he doesn't have time to waste. Lestrade is trying to tell him something and he needs to figure it out. He tilts his head before standing to retrieve his violin. He hears the door open and the footsteps on the steps before he can begin to play

"Mycroft." It's as much of a greeting as he is going to get. He watches his brother carefully once he spots the signs of nervousness and guilt. He rises from the couch with a leap. "Mycroft" this time it is a demand. "This is something big, isn't it?" It's not really a question. The two Holmes brothers are now face to face. Mycroft swallows and steels himself as he stares into Sherlock's eyes.

"John Watson is no longer any concern of yours." Mycroft's voice is level as it delivers the blow. Sherlock was expecting something big and hurtful and yet he still isn't prepared.

"What?" He takes half a step back and his eyes jump across the man's face, "No." his face tilts as he lets his anger take him. "You?"

"From now on," his brother continues, keeping an impassive face, trying not to break as he breaks his brother "you will stay out of this."

"Oh." His voice is a low growl that Mycroft has never heard before "That's what this is."

"Now if yo-" Mycroft voice cuts off his with his thoughts as he feels his brother's fist connecting with his cheek and tastes blood in his mouth. He raises a hand to grab the cheek but the second punch knocks him to the ground. Sherlock's eyes are wild and he draws his leg back to kick Mycroft. Mycroft has no doubt Sherlock would not stop unless someone stopped him and is ever grateful for the two men that pull Sherlock away from him. Sherlock kicks and screams as they drag him away and Mycroft stands after another few seconds.

"Mycroft!" He yells in rage as he tugs his arms forward trying to overcome the two men and get back to his brother. "AAUGH" He yells out tugging harder.

"What have you done to John?" He screams again as the third stabs him with a syringe. He wants to yell more, to hit things, he wants-he wants. No, he can feel the darkness start to take him. He slumps against them as the drug takes effect and the guards set him down on the floor as Mycroft lifts a handkerchief to his lips.

"Far too much I'm afraid." He nods to the men and they leave. Mycroft takes a last look at his brother, crumbled on the floor and defeated and knew he disserved all of Sherlock's hate, now and forever. "and yet it seems I'm not quite done." He sighs out, feeling defeated himself.

**TDS:** Send me reviews/prompts/love!


	18. Morgue

**TheDarkestShinobi:** Hey guys! Hope you enjoy the chapter, got a bit of Molly in, so I hope it is IC. Review!

Molly knows that walk; she has heard it coming down the hall here hundreds of times over the years. She can even tell, by the timing between footsteps, that Sherlock is eager, well eager or angry, but he's never been angry before. She doesn't even look up from her microscope as he comes in. She jots down the bacteria name, because she's finally identified it, and then looks up. She takes a step back involuntarily at the look in his eyes.

He's angry. Why would he be angry?

He takes two long quick steps towards her, his face locked in hot anger and disgust and her mind searches for anything she could have done to receive this look. He lets out an angry breath as he reaches her and she trusts him, she does, but she is scared.

"Sherlock?" She questions as she grabs the table to steady herself.

"Were you in on it too?" He accuses and she opens her eyes wider as she tilts her head. Confusion.

"On convincing me that John was dead." He shakes his head, hair flaring. "I have always trusted you," he makes that sound so terrible "I never questioned you and I never would have."

"Convincing?" her voice is high and fearful. "It _was_ John." Now there is pain in her voice as well. "It was John here, I-" She shifts, her knees seeming to give out for a second. "I even went to the funeral." She looks as if she's about to cry. She can't stand that look from him. Sherlock knows she's not lying.

"John is alive and well." Well wasn't the right word. Sherlock retreats slightly, but the anger doesn't completely fade away. "I see not everyone has betrayed me." He looks away from her as a thought occurs before looking back to her. She's different than her normal eagerness and nervousness with him. He watches her bristle with anger and then feels the sting of impact against his cheek as she slaps him. That was unexpected, although justifiable.

"Molly-" he starts

"No, Sherlock." Interesting, Molly has never been angry at him before, no matter what he's done to her. She's scolding him now. "I have _always_ been here." She continues and now she is crying as well. "I have always been open and honest and I've done everything you've ever asked of me." Her eyes are bright with tears and he knows he needs to fix this. It had been a kiss on the cheek at Christmas. "How dare you think that I" she cuts off as Sherlock hugs her. "would…" but the words die on her lips as she closes her eyes and leans her head on his chest. Her thoughts fade as well and her lips come up in a small smile. She stops crying and her anger dissipates. As soon as Sherlock deems it safe, he holds her at arm's length again.

"Once again Molly, I have to apologize to you. It's just that Lestrade, Mycroft and John" he trails off not wanting to say anymore and she understands. She always does. She'll always be there for him to use and they both know that.

"What happened?" She asks and he tells her everything, because he can trust her just as he always has. She nods the entire time taking everything in. She doesn't question him or doubt him for an instant and when he finishes she gazes up at him. "What are you going to do?"

"I'm going to find him." John wouldn't do this to him on purpose, he couldn't. "No doubt Moriarty has something over him." Because it was the perfect way to hurt him, John's betrayal, Lestrade's nonchalance and his brother's direct hand in the matter. She nods again, smiling before frowning and settling into an awkward expression that seems to always be on her face around him. She looks away before looking back and locking eyes with him.

"Is there anything you need?" She pleads, she wants to help. "Anything I can do?"

"No." He says as he turns around and leaves and Molly watches him with a storm of emotion brewing beneath her surface.

…

John paced back and forth in the room. Jim, who was still requiring John to call him Jim, hadn't sent anyone in need of medical attention his way in a week. He had refused to eat, drink, or partake in any activities with "the guys." That simply wasn't an option. He had denied them at first, then they stopped asking. He was just Moriarty's new doctor to them. He didn't know if he wanted them to know he was just a prisoner and that he wanted out as soon as possible.

He wondered if Sherlock had figured it out yet. Maybe Sherlock did and was working this all out in his mysterious and clever ways. Maybe a better case came along and stole Sherlock's attention. Maybe Sherlock thought it all to be true, and had abandoned him here. No, Sherlock wouldn't. If he did, would John no longer be deemed important? Could Sherlock have deleted him?

_You are the heart of him._

John did an about face and continued to pace. His hands itched to do something. He had done some of his own individual workouts before but that wasn't something he did often or even liked to do. He was also still sore from the last one. The military days of constant soreness and pain were long gone and he didn't want to repeat it unnecessarily. About face. He needed to find something to do before Jim found out he was bored. He had killed for England before, even killed the English for England, but no matter what anyone said, killing others via earpiece instruction was killing for Moriarty and he absolutely refused.

About face. A refusal wasn't something he could give the madman. He sighed. He hoped his team was okay. He hoped they got a new doctor, one that would keep them alive when they couldn't keep themselves and each other safe. He hoped Sherlock was safe. He hoped Sherlock hadn't been hurt too deeply by the debacle on the roof. He closed his eyes and he was back there again.

He had hated Moriarty in that moment, forget strapping him to a bomb, forget the kidnapping and the series of murders; he hated him for making him do that to Sherlock. He hated Mycroft for dragging him into it, for letting him believe he was needed on the front. He hated himself as soon as Sherlock's name left his lips because he knew how much he would hurt the other. He hadn't much choice. Sherlock would have been killed. The poison would have been released; the plane bombed. About face. He sighed and rubbed his face

He hated Sherlock for believing him.

John knew that had it been the other way around, had Moriarty tried to slander Sherlock, it wouldn't have worked. John would never doubt the other; he didn't trust easy but when he did it was wholeheartedly, so to be doubted hurt.

The door opens and John turns to face one of Moriarty's men. Tall man, easily over six feet tall and muscular; he has no facial hair and a short hair-cut that matched his. He has brown hair and brown eyes, and was just a shade darker than Sherlock. He also has a bag slung over his shoulders and another in his hand.

"John, uh-well the boys are heading to the gym…" he trails off hearing something behind him. He turns his head out "Wait just a god damned minute!" he shouts into the hallway. He turns back to John with a smile. He holds the bag out to John as an invitation, which John debates taking. John looks down to it. He should say no, should deny their offer like he has done before but he feels his hands twitching and realizes he needs to do something.

_Bored. _He tried to ignore the voice in his head. **Bang **_Bored. Bored!_

He lets out a small smile as he shrugs and walked forward. He hates these men too; what they did, but even more than that he hates that they don't look the part. He knows that it wasn't obvious, but he hadn't expected to find likable people here; people who watched the telly and played rugby and had trouble with their credit cards every once in a while. They seemed like very normal people.

The duffle bag is his; the clothes inside exactly his size. He entertains the thought of asking how they know, but does he really want to know? He thinks of Jim holding his suit. No, best to be kept in the dark.

The car ride is short and full of laughter; John doesn't partake in much, but can't help but feel their friendship. They are supposed to be evil and bitter and cold, but they act like his boys back in Afghanistan, ready to enjoy life together while they still have it. John rolls his shoulders as he notices the car turning and soon enough they arrive at the gym.

It's a bright place and the others inside greet them; John is introduced and finds himself unwillingly happy to be out and about again. He's even thankful to the men with him for taking him out, for still trying to include him.

David, the one who held the bag out to him, even helps him put on the gloves and doesn't complain a bit when John smashes his face in in the ring. John likes the idea of beating the snot out of Moriarty's men. He listens as they tell him why that was an illegal move and what he's allowed to do and then he lets his frustration out in a much more productive way

Moriarty smirks from where he's watching, because this is all going so well.

**TDS: **Thoughts?


	19. Replace

**TheDarkestShinobi:** Sherlock unwilling makes a new _friend. _

Lestrade has another case for him, this one within walking distance from Baker street. From the text and picture Lestrade sent it looks like an eight, so he can spare some time for it. He has made little to no progress on John by himself and Lestrade's hands a metaphorically tied. Sherlock reviews the scene from the roof once more in his mind as he continued to walk

"Hi!" Sherlock doesn't pay attention to the owner of the voice as he walks past her. She is undeterred and starts following him down the sidewalk. "Mr. Sherlock Holmes, right?" He glances at her from the corner of his eye before looking forward again.

"Busy." He bites out as he starts to cross the street; she runs a few paces to keep up with his long stride.

"Right," she lets out a laugh and he rolls his eyes. "Uh, my name's Susan."

"Yes. Susan Doyle,"

"Ah! You remember?" She seems pleased. He turns the corner.

"Haven't deleted you yet." He starts towards the yellow police tape and she grabs his arm. He turns towards her with a scathing look and she lets him go.

"I just wanted to thank you is all," it wasn't, he could tell from her lipstick and the wrinkle in her sleeve that she was nervous, well not the lipstick but the fact that it was on her teeth. That and her walk; she kept trying to match his steps and his pace alternatively. He is reminded of Molly, but this woman would have years before they could be considered equals. "and I was wondering if you would like to" but he's not listening, already ducking under the yellow tape and wondering if a row with Donavan was avoidable. Of course not.

"So that's how it goes, lose one and pick up another." She shakes her head. "I can't believe you." She turns her attention to Susan, "You with 'im?"

"Yes," she replies with haste as he lets out a resonating

"No," and continues into the building.

Sally watches him go up the stairs and turns to the woman still waiting.

"He'll be awhile." She admits and the other nods and makes no motion to leave. Sally looks way before pursing her lips and turning to face the other fully.

"Who are you?"

"Uh-Susan," she's nervous, but truthful, "Susan Doyle" she introduces as she extends a hand.

"Sargent Sally Donavan," she shakes the hand with her own, noting the weak handshake.

"What's your relation to Sherlock?" she continues as she crosses her hands and leans on her right leg. Susan pulls her lip with her teeth before answering.

"He saved my life, I was the-Have you heard of the bride collector?" Sally lets out a breath with a nod and Susan blinks, naked in front of him once again. His eyes raked across her body before the Detective Inspector handed her his coat. She hasn't been able to stop thinking about him. God sent him to her to save her from the devil. She smiled softly. "I was the one on the table when he barged in. He saved my life."

"He does that." She grudgingly admits as if she's forgotten. It's not why he does what he does, but he does do it. Susan knows this, he and John went around solving crimes and saving lives until they had a fallout; it was all over the papers, that and John's blog. The fallout ended with John death, an accidental overdose on medication.

"I know you think he saved your life, he's someone valiant or something. But stay away from Sherlock Holmes." She warns; her tone dropping. She had to get this one away. She blinks to see John.

"Why?" She asks, confused, who would ever want to stay away from him?

"He's a psychopath." She remembers the vomit, the body of a great man in pain. "He gets off on these crimes, any crime." Susan doesn't look deterred. "His best friend committed suicide because of him." Susan blinks twice before swallowing, not an accident then. "And Sherlock stood over the body to inspect it, said it was brilliant and didn't even go to the funeral."

Susan didn't look like she was leaving any time soon. She could understand pain from someone else's suicide. Her brother took his own life a while ago; she still wore the necklace he made her to remember him, not like she could forget.

"I'd say this wouldn't be enough for him, that one day we'd be standing around a body and Sherlock will be the one to have put it there but I've already stood at a dead body he's caused."

Susan looks away from Sally and remembers the way his coat flutters behind him, the look of rage in his eye as they spoke of Moriarty, she doesn't remember what they were talking about, the doctors say it's because of her shock, but she knows it was because of her.

"I don't care," she finally resolves, "I've seen him, the real him and he's not the monster you're making him out to be." There is adoration in her eyes, and Donavan narrows her own.

"Right." Sally slowly agrees as something clicking into place; she'd have to tell Lestrade to keep an eye on this one.

"Not even a 6" Sherlock mutters under his breath as he passes the two of them on his way out. Anderson comes out the door later shaking his head and pulling off his gloves while Lestrade makes a phone call and Sally watches Susan chase after Sherlock.

"Tell me about your friend." Susan asks as she catches up to Sherlock. He glances at her again and lets out a sigh, and she wonders briefly how no one can see what these cases do to him. She'd like to give him a massage, help ease his pain. There must be so much, especially if his best friend really committed suicide.

"Why would I do that?" He opens the door to Angelo's and walks in without holding the door open for her. She is still trailing after him.

"No reason." She answers with a shrug

"You already know. You read the papers, Donavan told you." His voice is low and controlled, but barely. "He died." He didn't die; he went to Moriarty, to _Jim. _She watches him, such anger and pain. She wants to caress his face but she doesn't know if he'd allow it. The conversation ends as Angelo approaches them. Sherlock looks up as Angelo walks over to them, he looks upset.

"It's been almost a week Sherlock; tell me you're eating, please." Sherlock doesn't answer, instead handing Angelo the menu. "The usual." Angelo nods, before looking over to the other, Sherlock can read the question in his mind but Angelo knows better than to ask about John, he learned that the first time Sherlock came in here without him.

"And you?"

"Can I have a minute?" she asks picking it up and glancing at Sherlock; has he not been eating?

"Shall I bring a candle? It's more romantic for your date."

"Oh, yes please" Susan gushes but Sherlock's face twitches as he remembers _'I'm not his date'_ and snaps.

"It's not a date." Susan looks crushed, Sherlock doesn't care. Angelo retreats.

"Quite rude, inviting yourself to lunch with a stranger." He stares out the window as he curses himself for not eating yesterday so he had to today. That was his goal, take care of himself the way John would. John would see that. When this mess was over, he'd appreciate it.

"What better way to get to know a stranger," her pupils are dilated, breathing rate increased. He'd bet her pulse also was. "After all, it's such as shame that we know nothing about each other." He let a side of his mouth quirk up. "You disagree?"

"I know you're pilot and a smoker although you've quit since moving to London. You moved here after you mother died and have started taking martial arts class, MMA to be specific."

"Wow" she breathed as he continued.

"I know your father beat your brothers and you wished he beat you, although you did get your fair share of abuse, with his sexual assaults, and that is the reason you broke off your engagement last year." She doesn't want to remember that, or be reminded of that, but she knows he's hurt and lashing out when you're hurt is normal.

"That was amazing." She says and he pauses for a second before looking away. Her poor baby, can no one else see he's hurting?

_Of course it was. It was extraordinary, quiet extraordinary. _

There's only one thing for it. She has to fix him; she has to replace John Watson.


	20. Rematch

**TheDarkestShinobi: **I always think I'll write when I have time and them time flies away. Enjoy!

John looks up from his book at the sound of the door opening. Jim's standing at the door in a full blue suit and a yellow file folder in his hands. John lowers the book and wonders about the purpose of this visit. David lowers the newspaper from the other couch and quickly picks up his things as Jim jerks his thumb towards the door. John tilts his head in departure before using the cover as a bookmark and putting the book on the table.

Jim watches the door close before he turns back to John and lifts the file folder in his hand. John stands to take it.

"Here you go!" Jim exclaims with glee as he throws the folder towards John. He catches it with confusion but doesn't look away from Jim to look at it. He tilts his wrist to raise the file.

"What is this?" He questions. It could be anything, it was relatively big for the patients and Jim hadn't given him anything on those before. He also never told him more than who to send where for the missions, and those meetings were never in his room, always in Jim's.

"Everything Mycroft needs to stop the bomb." John immediately breaks eye contact and opens the files. He looks at all the faces and tries to commit them to memory, no telling how long Jim would let him look.

"No need to memorize them." He sounds amused and John looks back up. Jim rocks his head back and forth as he pulls his lips back in what could be a smile with raised eyebrows "You're going to go deliver it to him." Jim nods with his words as if that made them true. "He'll be back at the palace in" Jim lifts his arm to look at his bare wrist. "47 minutes." John furrowed his eyebrows and looks as if he's about to say something but pauses.

"A promise is a promise," Jim turns away from him and walks towards the one window in John's room. "Now, it's not as fun as a promise of pain but…" Jim trails off and shrugs before turning back to John and smiling.

"So, I-I'm free?" He was always good at showing his hand.

Free? Jim lets the word echo in his eardrum and fights the urge to scream at John. Never. They crossed his path, tried to get in his way.

"Ask me again when you get back." He finally responds and listens as John turns on his heel to face his closet and starts walking over. "Have one of the men take you." He instructs and is sure John is nodding.

"Who?" He loves that John doesn't fight him anymore; he was right in that it would not need more than a month to acclimatize John to him; to listen to him the way he listened to Sherlock. It was like a dog taking to a new master. The next step had Sherlock burning John. Then-Jim lets a wide grin take his face.

"Whoever is best, they are _your_ men, Dr. Watson." Jim doesn't look at him to judge his reaction but he knows it contains wide eyes and a confused expression before John shakes his head and decides to go with it. He listens to John pull the coat on and walk out the door before bouncing on his feet and leaving himself.

It would be David then.

…

John takes David and tells him to be 'bloody quiet cause I've got a lot on my mind' so he can think on the ride over. Jim was trying to give him some sort of messages, and John only knows that much. The only thing John could come up with was that Jim wasn't going to let him go. John had known it was a possibility from the start, but he hadn't expected it. He tells David to stop as soon as they get as close and gives him instructions on where to wait to pick him up. The sooner this was over the better as far as John is concerned. He hasn't had to see Mycroft since that first time and he doesn't want to know what the man thinks of him now.

He straightens out his suit as soon as both feet are on the sidewalk and buttons the last button on his jacket. He grabs the folder tightly before looking up to the palace. Here he is, sneaking in again. He knows Jim wants it that way so he walks around the back to the place he was shown last time. Best to do it all exactly how Jim wants it, especially being so close to having it over. No point in angering him now

"Mycroft." John listens to the other man stumble before turning on the light in the room he assumed was empty. John is sitting in a chair in front of a table, fingers touching each other as he reclines in a relaxed and intimidating position.

"John! What are you doing here? Did you escape-" John doesn't say a word, simply tilts his head to get Mycroft to stop talking.

Mycroft notes the similarities to Moriarty instantly, and in ways he knew John didn't even know yet. Moriarty's using John even more than they all knew. He's shaping John to be something that Mycroft dreaded and would destroy Sherlock. Couldn't John see that and stop it. He takes in the suit and the perfect tailoring. There is a manila folder on the table that was considerably thick and is obviously the reason for the visit. Mycroft walks towards John.

"What is this visit for?" Because this isn't John, this is Moriarty's messenger.

"There is a plane that is leaving London in seven hours. Her majesty will be on it." Mycroft pales; that was secret information and John doles it out like it had been on the headlines. "There will also be seven men you hadn't planned for and a bomb."

His voice is calm, too calm; too cold. What had Moriarty done in that month since they saw John? Sherlock already hated Mycroft for letting Moriarty hold John, but now…

"How can-" Mycroft is again cut off by John raising his hand; he then points to the folder on the table.

"As per the arrangement, there are all the files necessary to stop the attack." Mycroft snatches the folder up but waits to look at the contents.

"Is that it then, are you done?" John doesn't answer at first. He wonders briefly what would be okay to say, nothing to give anything away, and nothing he didn't know. As Jim said, he had plenty more threats so don't mess up.

"I'm going back now." He settles on as he stands. Mycroft stares at him and draws his head back to stand at his full height. His lips settle into flat lines at his observations as John turns around and walks away.

…

"I seriously believe we need to keep an eye on her."

"She's a fan." Lestrade stresses again, "I'm sure he'll drive her away soon enough."

"No." Sally is firm. "She's a fanatic, and this is going to end in something drastic if we don't."

And Sally is right, for at the very moment he is insulting her and telling her to get lost. He's already deleted her, and she's determined to do anything to make him remember her and love her.

…

John had snuck in, he had been perfect. Moriarty is positively giddy. He takes out John's phone and tosses it in his hands a few times before tapping it against one hand.

10 seconds later he sends two text messages and a picture.

…

"You think it's his husband. Just back from the war, to his _true_ love, and the first things he does is try to kill her" Much like John knocked him out, right? "Let's review here," because _normal_ people don't act like that. Sherlock uses his arms to hold his body up as he hops into the sofa chair, his ribs protesting softly, but he pushes through that. John wouldn't have liked that. Lestrade shakes his head with annoyance but turned to listen to him. "There were no signs of forced entry. That means she either let the attacker in or he had a key. Sounds like someone she was intimate with. Based on her state, they were intimate today, may even get a semen sample if they didn't use protection or a used condom in the bedroom. Now the toilet seat in the bathroom of this apartment is up so unless you want to tell me something about her that you haven't we know there was a man here recently." Lestrade's look shifts and Sherlock just knows he's going to bring up the husband being the killer or an intruder. Sherlock let out a huff.

"I doubt the killer would stop to use the bathroom, Lestrade." Sherlock lets his fingers touch each other under his chin. "So the _phantom_" and the word is said with mockery "stopped by." He looks up to the detective. "There were two wine glasses missing from the set of six over the sink. She shared a drink with him before they left to see a movie." He glances at the floor. "around 5:30."

Sherlock closes his eyes.

"They get back around 9, and she tells him her husband is coming back." A tilt of the head. "Her lover doesn't like that and so he grabs the nearest thing," Sherlock points to the bookcase "her missing MVP basketball trophy and bludgeons her with it." Lestrade begins to shake his head. "He took the glasses which had his fingerprints on them and made a hasty retreat."

"10. Husband comes home." He walks to the door. "Drops bag here as he opens door. Freezes at the sight and turns swiftly on his heel to call the police. He wanted to hold her, but he's smart man. He didn't interfere with the crime scene and it's going to save him jail time." Sherlock turns to a wide eyed Greg. "Find her lover, a 200 pound athlete by the state of her sink, and you have your killer." He gets up and walks away then, taking out his phone as it vibrates.

_I've missed you – JW_

_Sent you something – JW_

There is a picture attached, and Sherlock is sure he doesn't want to open it.

**TDS:** reviews are love!


	21. Choices

**TheDarkestShinobi:** Wow, this is going to be a long story.

The simple note on his bed told him to report to a room down the hall and then the note there sent him to a large open space. There are 30 people in the room that are blindfolded, gagged and tied up. Jim is sitting on a chair, drinking tea and eating a biscuit when John walks in. John ignores the people in blindfolds after a quick glance tells him that none of them are injured.

"What's this then?" Jim opens his hand and turns it over to motion the food.

"Lunch," he answers as he pours John another cup up tea. John glances back at the others and sets his shoulders before eating.

"You're not letting me go." He announces as soon as he's 100% sure.

"I may." Jim responds as he shrugs. "I'm giving you a choice." He is, not a fair one, but it would be boring if he played fair. This way, when anyone asked, John could say he chose to stay and would not be lying.

"What are they for?" John has made the leap, it was simple. He turns to take them in again and Jim almost winces at how John couldn't ignore them, he had gotten better, but maybe he did need more than a month, less boring then.

"Well, that depends on your answer." John goes to rub his forehead and Jim slaps his hand. John leans back in his seat.

"Control your emotions, John; you will keep a calm exterior even with me." John didn't need to hear threats to comply and he nods once and curtly.

The first two times John hadn't been immediately obedient, he watched as an innocent suffered for it; a prisoner getting an extra beating and a murder being extra vicious. The third time John had pleaded to keep the other safe. He almost fell to his knees but the trigger had been pulled. There was no forth time.

"The question." John demands as Jim sips his tea. Jim looks down at the cup before back up and is happy to note John's face would look blank to most.

"My, my, John-"

"The question." John interrupts firmly. There was no hint of anger in his voice.

"Follow me." He does.

Jim leads him to the other room and John fights the urge to cross his arms.

"Are you staying to continue to work for me?" John tilts his head to the side thinking.

"What are those 30 people for?" he asks instead and Jim nods.

"Depends on your answer." John knew; he knew that something bad would happen if he said no. He needs to say yes. He fights the urge to clench his fist or bit his lips and sigh. He looks around the room as he counts to 10.

"If I say no," Jim grimaces and John doesn't need to ask further.

"If I say yes" he tries again and Jim shrugs.

"It's less boring" he answers and John is thankful for his military training as his body remains still.

"I really don't have a choice then." He almost sighs, almost. Damn this was hard. Jim holds out his hands in a placating manner.

"You can walk out the door now and I will leave Sherlock and you alone." John swallows. "But if you say yes, you will not deny me anything."

"If I said yes," John's finger taps his leg, "how long am I saying yes to?"

Jim does not say anything, and John replays the conversation in his head. Jim lets the pieces fall together in John's mind and watches John come to a realization.

"Oh," he lets out almost a full minute later. He sits in the nearest chair and says it again. Jim watches; hands clasped behind his back. John closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. Jim lets a side of his mouth quirk up briefly.

"Are you staying to continue to work for me?"

"Yes." John doesn't hesitate in his answer. He is sentencing himself for who knows how long and to do what god only knows. His leans forward and laces his fingers together.

"You're time with me is done technically," Jim continues "the bombing has been stopped, Mycroft has been informed. I will carry out no threat against the British Nation."

"Yes." He repeats his answer firmly with a nod. His life for 30 others, he is already dead to Sherlock likely. Mycroft looked at him with revolt last time.

"You will not hesitate to do anything I tell you to. Your time is voluntary." He would have to kill, to maim and to hurt.

"Yes."

He'd do it for 31 people.

…

Sherlock walks outside to get better service, still it takes a few seconds for the picture to load and when it does it pops up on the screen. Lestrade notices that Sherlock has stopped leaving and walks over.

There is a picture of John.

Sherlock is not sure what to make of it at first. He is smiling and laughing and someone else had taken the picture. John is in jeans and a red T-shirt leaning forward in his chair. He's got a piece of something in his hand. It clicks.

A game piece.

From Life.

Sherlock lets out a long breath and puts the phone in his pocket. Lestrade asks him what that was.

"Moriarty played a game last year, using people as bait to get us to solve murders."

"Yeah, so?" Lestrade uses his hands to pull back his coat as they settled on his hips. Sherlock looks away.

"It's John's turn."

"Ah, Christ." Lestrade runs his hand through the fuzz on his head. Sherlock stands impossibly still. "When do you think it will start?"

"No telling." Sherlock watched a bird land on the rooftop of an adjacent building. "but it will be soon."

Exactly 12 hours later, on another case, Sherlock receives the picture. It is of John's chair. Sherlock knows he needs to head there immediately and drops the arm he had been inspecting.

"Sherlock?" He doesn't respond, looking to see if the picture can tell him anything. "It's happening now, isn't it?"

"Yes, I have to go." Lestrade reaches for his cell as he motions for Sherlock to follow him.

Normally, Sherlock would tell the DI that driving and talking on the phone was against the law, but he just looks out the window as Lestrade tells Dimmock to move his rear.

John was behind this, that's what the first picture meant. The second picture is another jab.

_Hurry up_

John hits send before turning back to the woman.

"Sherlock's smart," he says as he fastens the straps. She's got enough explosives around her midsection to take out this whole building. "He should solve this soon enough and then you can go back home."

She wants to ask him why he's doing this, he doesn't seem to be like the others, but the fact that he could strap her into a bomb so easily stills her tongue. He sighs before he gets up and wipes his hands on his jeans. She takes him in, the muscles, the scars, his face. If she survived she'd bring at least one person down. It would have to be him.

…

_Earlier_

"My phone?" John questions even though he already knows the answer. He picks it up from where it stopped after Jim's initial push.

"I played a game with Sherlock, five rounds." Jim starts.

"I remember, you strapped me to a bomb." John inputs.

"It is your turn to play." He continues; John picks up his phone and uses it to tap the table.

"There are thirty people in that room, and you are going to give Sherlock pictures or clues to get him to solve 30 murders. The file is on your bed and each one is numbered."

"I don't think like you." John replied, although it wasn't in a defensive tone.

"Learn to." Jim instructed. "You have 30 days to get him to solve all 30, each time he does, you can give him a present." John nodded very slowly. "You give him a time limit for each one and at the end of 30 days I kill the ones he didn't get."

John looked away. He couldn't do this. He didn't know how to give clues, he could barely follow them.

Harry Wiles and Clara Osborn.

John taps his phone against the table to think.

He had no clue how to get Sherlock to figure out the intertwining bodies.

Think. Think. His time was already running out. Sherlock had to have information to solve. He hit the phone on the table again and it slipped out of his hands. He reached over and held it, turning it over to make sure he didn't damage it.

Oh.

_Oh_

**Review!**


	22. XXX

**TheDarkestShinobi:** I promised myself I'd have this up as soon as I got a 30th review, and here it is!

Sherlock is out of the car the second it stops moving. He's flying up the stairs as Lestrade opens the front door. Lestrade starts up the step and looks up to see Sherlock's back. Sherlock seems to be frozen and for a second Lestrade is sure that John Watson is in the flat because Sherlock has stopped breathing. Lestrade shifts and peers around Sherlock to see the flat. It looks as it always, no mess, no John, no clue. Lestrade shifts back and waits.

"John was here." Sherlock announces after another moment and Lestrade places a hand on Sherlock's back for comfort. Lestrade feels Sherlock lean into it for the briefest amount of time before he is moving again. Sherlock takes slow cautious steps, and gently reaches out to touch the wall.

John let the door swing shut as he took a deep breath. He lifted his hand and placed it on the wall as he looked around his old flat. Sherlock hadn't changed much since kicking him out. John took a deep breath. He hadn't expected to be back here so soon or at all if he was honest with himself. John shook his head and placed a hand on the table to lean over and grab a pen.

Lestrade watches Sherlock place his right hand on the table before reaching over. He furrows his eyebrows but keeps his mouth shut. He knows how others thoughts and sounds distract and irritate the other. The only one who had free reign to interrupt was now on the other side, the other side of what Lestrade didn't know. Sherlock grabs at empty air he didn't need to lean to reach before pulling back. Sherlock turns in a perfect 180 degrees and Lestrade's mouth opens to ask why before he shuts it. Sherlock is tracing John's actions.

John turned and walked towards the skull. He wanted to tell Sherlock that all of it was fake. He wondered about Sherlock's different reactions to that. He could be furious with John for following his brother's plan and Moriarty. He could be grateful that John hasn't truly betrayed him, that this wasn't voluntary. John turned the skull to the side to look at John's usual spot. He could decide to test John, to see if John would really kill the others, then John would. John sat in his chair. No. He couldn't tell Sherlock yet.

Sherlock looks at the dust, always a giveaway. The skull is facing a different direction than he left it. Lestrade crosses his arms and leans against the wall, watching. Mycroft coming to him meant one of two things. John was dead and is driving Sherlock crazy, or John is alive and is doing worse. Lestrade is no fool; he knows that Mycroft knows about criminals like Moriarty. It was hard to leave them out there but who would testify? Who would prosecute? If John is alive Mycroft knows about it and wants it to be left alone. If John is truly dead than Moriarty is playing another sick game, one that Sherlock may not walk away from.

It's the chair, John's being redundant. Sherlock debates sitting in it but he can't bring himself to. Its Johns chair. Sherlock has never sat in that chair. Sherlock's eyes find the paper so he snatches it up before sitting on the couch.

XXX

John nodded, already having decided that clue would be enough to get Sherlock to figure out what case he had to solve. Jim had given him 12 hours for the tougher cases, so 16 should be plenty of time. He could only hope. John left the paper on the armrest and bolted. Sherlock would be here any moment now. He ran across the street and waited. He should have left, but he wanted to see him again. He hid in the shadows and further in his hoodie and watched as Lestrade pulled up and they both raced inside. With a few nods he turned and walked away, his hand playing with his mobile. He'd have to call soon.

"He was here recently, left just before we got here." Sherlock starts as he stares at the three Xs on the paper as Lestrade walks over to the couch.

"And he left that?" Lestrade points to the paper and Sherlock gives one curt nod. The missing insult of obvious hung in the air and Lestrade blinked twice at its absence before looking away.

Sherlock tilts his head.

It could be a romantic attachment, three kisses. He would have text that. Three Xs, roman number 30. Less likely.

XXX

The message isn't as important as the means in this case. He had to come back to the apartment, its more effort that a text, he could have been caught. It couldn't have been a text then. There was a reason! It had to be physical, stir a visual memory. He scanned his thoughts.

"_Now Clara, who's Clara, three kisses says it's a romantic attachment."_

"Harry," Sherlock thought aloud and Lestrade shifts his weight as his hands found his hips. "From Clara," he doesn't move his grip on the paper but looks at it differently.

"_Expense of the phone says wife not girlfriend"_

"Harry and Clara?" Lestrade interrupts Sherlock's thoughts. "What?" He shifts about again. "Are you talkin' about the twins from the cold case?"

"No." Sherlock admits, "but John is."

"Can we assume there's a-"

Sherlock never talks if he can text, so it surprises the both of them to hear his ringtone. He fishes it out of his coat pocket with his right hand and lets out a breath before answering.

"Have you figured it out yet?" John's voice sounds eager over the phone.

"The twin murders." Sherlock answers as Lestrade mouths the word 'who' and then 'John' while stroking his chin.

"Good." John sounds oddly relieved. "You have 16 hours." John's voice is serious now. Sherlock feels his face contort in anger.

"Not going to hide behind your victim's voice?" He snarls into the phone.

"I probably care about them more than you do," John says dismissively but Sherlock doesn't need reminders of how much he cares, especially not from John. "You'll hear from her if you save her."

"So it's a her." Sherlock doesn't need to repeat the information, but he wants to rub it in that John made a mistake in giving away a gender.

"This time." John hangs up and Sherlock lowers the phone, hurt written across his face. How could John… ?

This was the pool all over again, except there is no gun or bomb pointed at John. John chose this. His hand feels unsteady, so he puts the paper down and rests it on his leg.

Unacceptable.

No.

"Well," Lestrade prompts after Sherlock places his phone back in his pocket.

"We have sixteen hours to solve Harry and Clara's murder or a bomb will be detonated."

Sherlock sounds shocked and mildly horrified, he sounds lost and confused and Lestrade knows it's not the situation.

"John?" he questions and he's not sure what he wants the answer to be. Sherlock nods instead of speaking and Lestrade scratches his forehead. "The files are on my desk, should we head back?" Sherlock nods before standing and walking to the door and Lestrade wonders how a DI would be charged with murder.

…

David knows John Watson isn't like the others. Everyone who works for the Big M has something they want in return, records cleared or medical bills for a family member or a murder hushed up. For David, his brother got into some massive debt and killed the guy he owed. David is working to get him out. They all have something they are willing to die for keeping them here. Big M doesn't threaten them because better work comes from love, a vicious motivator or something like that. John doesn't want anything. Big M doesn't seek them out like he does to John.

There are rumors that Dr. Watson is Big M's squeeze, for lack of a better word. John always seems to be there, so he may live there, and Big M is always with him. While everyone calls big M Mr. Moriarty, John calls him Jim. John doesn't bow down to Jim like the rest of them. Mr. Moriarty buys John clothes. It's rather obvious to David but he wants to ask and he doesn't know how.

John is looking out the window with guilt plastered on his face. David knows Mr. Moriarty didn't send John to that guy's house, and John didn't seem to want anyone else to know either. David taps the steering wheel and wonders if John is cheating on Big M, and what insane revenge Big M is capable of.

**TDS: **This is important. I want your opinions. At this point in time, my plans for this story do not involve Jim doing anything to John that's 'less than professional' but I had the thought today and could feasibly introduce it. I haven't made a decision on it yet, but I would like your opinions on it.


	23. Blonde

**TheDarkestShinobi: ** I'm not going to do all 30, that would make this story reeeeeaaaally long. Enjoy!

"_This is all you have?" Lestrade nods as he turns back to Sherlock, who is reading the information in the files._

"_This was before I was here, so I don't even have anything to help you with." Sherlock waves his hand_

"_Memories are unreliable," Sherlock frowns as he looks back to the folder. "I could do so much better given the crime scene"_

John is watching the live feed with Jim and frowns. He thought Sherlock would have more information. Did he give him too little time?

"These words exactly, John." Jim starts and John looks up from the feed to the other.

"You want me to text him?" Jim doesn't answer and John takes it as a yes.

"I can give you a new crime scene and not an imitation." Jim nods and John sends it, adding a JW to the end as a signature.

A few seconds later Sherlock, as seen through the footage, reaches into his coat pocket. Jim pulls up his arm and glances at his bare wrist.

"It should be done now." He says to himself before squeezing John's shoulder. "Now send him this address." Jim shoots off an address and John sends it over.

"_John has sent us a new crime scene," Sherlock spins the phone in his hand. "Not an imitation."_

"_Where?" Resignation coats the DI's words. Sherlock's phone chirps in response and he turns it towards Lestrade. _

"_That's close, let's go." Lestrade grabs his coat. "DONAVAN!" He shouts as he leaves the office. Sherlock pauses a second before looking directly into the camera Jim planted. He looks as if he's about to speak but just shakes his head and walks out._

"Good." Jim praises as he leans back in his chair. John reaches over to his bag behind him, one he took from Jim, and pulls out a folder.

"Figuring out #2?" Jim asks as he shifts closer, even though he knows the answer. John doesn't answer and starts skimming the document again.

"Need help?" he asks in a tone that John would peg as teasing. John doesn't want to admit it, so he won't for now.

Jim simply pulls out a file of his own before sneering and making a phone call, threatening to start a war before the other could even get back into his country.

_Try not to start a war before I get home Mycroft, you know what it does to the traffic._

John smiled and shook his head at the memory before Jim hung up the phone and sat down next to him. John's pencil tapped the folder before Jim leaned over and pointed to the date on top as if helping him cheat on a primary school test. That thought made John stifle snickers before he reigned himself in and checked the date.

"That's tomorrow." Jim looks away and shifts, resting his back against John's side as he starts texting and John saw the contact listed as The Vixen before the screen went black. Jim pulls up another conversation with a contact called The Coward. Much like the name would suggest, the message was one begging for forgiveness and not to hurt him. Jim shook his head; the motion feeling odd against John's shoulder.

"Now, now, _I_ won't hurt you." Jim smirks and John's eyebrow shoots up. "Never liked guns," he says in explanation to John. "But someone else will." He looks up as John looks down and John swears the consulting criminal is now 5 years old. He changes so quickly John has to wonder if he's got a disorder. "Do you think I need new shoes, a purse or some paper?"

"Shoes?" There is a smile on his face as he responds, even though he tried hard not to.

"Mmm." Another conversation is pulled up, to a contact called Moran, and Jim sends a text saying 'Coward; shoes' and John's smile disappears.

_I will turn you into shoes._

"Did I just…" the question dies on his lips and Jim doesn't answer. John takes it as a yes and he feels the need to throw up. He stands quickly and Jim falls back until his head hits the armrest, texting away as if it didn't matter. John starts walking out when Jim's voice stops him.

"You've killed people."

"Yes," John answers back, but the situation was different.

"You've killed people more innocent than he. He ordered the massacre of 500 people." Jim speaks and John's fingers alternate touching his palm. "I told him not to, but he thinks that they can honestly cause an uprising in his country." Jim shrugs and grimaces. "Idiot." The last part is said hatefully. John turns fully to Jim now.

_It doesn't make it better, it doesn't._

"In fact." His voice is high and excited. "This massacre is going to cause the other villages to unite and overthrow the rest of his dictatorship."

"And you're helping?"

"My interests just happen to be the same this time." He crossed his legs at the ankle. "Just like my interest is getting those 30 people back."

"Why?" John is walking back towards Jim, who has put his phone down. He just shakes his head with a smile that was sin. He then sat up and swung his legs around so that he was sitting properly on the couch.

"Now, do you want help?"

…

The twins were both 34 years old, much older than the 21 year olds in the first case. Both naked and positioned in a way that made them look like fetus intertwined in the womb. Sherlock walks around the bodies as Donavan calls it in and lowers himself to the ground pulling out a magnifying glass.

"Too easy." Sherlock announces as he uses a pair of tweezers to grab a single blonde hair. He places it in a bag before giving it to Lestrade and walking around the bodies again. The elder twin was married, almost 10 years, happily. The younger was single, or not in a serious relationship at the time due to the tired clubbers eyes and the makeup caked to her face, and the wrinkles on her heel. The tan line on her finger is almost completely faded, so recently divorced or widowed, likely divorced given recent habits of hers.

Both of them were strangled with a cord, the same cord now used to tie them together. Sherlock tilted his head. The divorcee was a teacher and the other a therapist. He trailed his eyes up her dark skin and landed on her lips. They were taped shut. That's new.

He left when the others arrived, his work was done for now. There were 15 hours left, they would have results soon enough.

…

"Who does the blonde hair belong to?" John asks as Jim walks into his room. John accepts the takeaway bag and starts pulling out his food.

"Not the murderess."

"A woman?" John's tone could not be more surprised and Jim laughed.

"Men don't have a monopoly on murder. Women are quite creative and usually much more accepting of help." John shakes his head as Jim's phone buzzes. He pulls a face and ignores it. John shoves a forkful of chicken and rice into his mouth and Jim does the same with his own. Jim's phone buzzes again and he pulls it out to glance at it.

"Mr. Moriarty, I have heard of your elusive services and am in need of help." He reads out, and then "It's urgent." Jim makes a face and John does not want to talk about any death or murder or shoes while he's eating so he takes the phone from Jim's hand and puts it in his pocket.

"Eating is urgent." He points at Jim's food with his fork and continues to eat; Jim laughs at the absurdity nods before picking his fork back up.

Jim knows this is going to be a slow process, but it's moving along quite nicely.

…

Mycroft pulls out his phone to read his new text, which is simply 'open the door' from an unknown number. He frowns before shaking his head and replacing the phone. He walks over to the door and opens it to see no one, and then, out of sheer curiosity, he walks to the main entrance and opens that.

"Mycroft." Lestrade says in greeting and Mycroft is confused but opens the door further.

"Detective Inspector." Lestrade takes two steps in and notices all of the others sitting in the room, so he lets Mycroft lead him to an office. "We can talk in here," he starts, but he never gets to finish because, for the second time in a week, he is floored by a punch to the face.

"Before I have you thrown in prison." Mycroft begins as he stands, and Lestrade is barely controlling himself, the twitching of his hand making that evident. "I'll give you one minute to explain why you thought this your best course of action." Mycroft's hand is rubbing his jaw but other than that, he remains unaffected, outwardly. Lestrade lets out a deep breath.

"John is sending Sherlock to solve murders and is threatening to blow people up if Sherlock fails or is too slow." Lestrade crosses his arms and Mycroft lowers his. "If John is with Moriarty, you have to know." Mycroft begins to speak but Lestrade hold up a hand and shoots Mycroft a dirty look. "Don't, just don't. I'm not stupid; I know how the world works." Mycroft lets a small political smile grace his face.

"So why are you here?"

"You let John go to Moriarty." Mycroft shook his head and Lestrade's fingers thrummed against his bicep.

"No, I made him." Lestrade's fingers tightened on his biceps.

"WHAT?" He was moving towards Mycroft.

"I made John serve under Moriarty for a short while; it was part of a bargain." Mycroft spoke slowly. "Apparently, at the end of the bargain, John chose to stay."

"I want to punch you again." Lestrade confesses.

"I assure you that _will_ end with you in prison." Mycroft has a neutral expression on his face but he still takes a step back.

"John wouldn't just jump ship like that. He was a soldier for Christ's sake, he's all about Queen and country."

"I don't know." Mycroft admits as he watches Lestrade for an outburst. "But we know Moriarty has made no threat against us since then, and watching John proves troubling." He pauses "as far as we can tell, John is a willing participant in all of this."


	24. Solved

**TheDarkestShinobi:** Enjoy! Sorry for the lack of updates, Midterms came up.

He's looking for John.

Sherlock needs answers because he can't figure out how John could so drastically change. He has Angelo looking for John. The homeless network has been scouting as well. Currently, he's waiting for the message from Lestrade calling him back to the PD. He laces his fingers together as he closes his eyes.

Love was the most vicious motivator. This could be to take revenge for Sherlock's rejection but that would not be it. The image of John and Moriarty's lips pressed together cause him to open his eyes and shake his head. Could Moriarty have offered John what Sherlock denied him? Even then, he doubted John could have been hurting enough to accept it. He cracks his neck and thrums his fingers on the table.

His best friend, his partner was now working with his archenemy. Moriarty had threatened to burn him and Sherlock had given him the perfect weapon. He swallows remembering the conversation, if one could call it that, that he had with Mycroft. Even now, it causes hot anger to run through his veins. Moriarty was right, he was burning. He still has the urge to punch his brother over and over again. He takes a deep breath as he watches a cab pass by.

It hadn't been _that _long ago that he and John chased a cab from this very spot. John had left his cane that day. Now Sherlock was the one being left behind. He aches inside as he looks to where John would sit.

Sherlock watches a woman come in and spot him. He watches as she makes her way over him with a wave. She seems familiar with him but he cannot remember her. She must be deleted information. He says nothing as she slides into the seat across from him.

"Sherlock." The greeting is laced with affection, which is odd, because he makes it a point to remember the ones that are affectionate to him, even if he would be better served deleting some of them.

"I'm busy, go away." He pulls out his phone to look busy, so the texts from Lestrade pop right up.

We've identified one of the twins. –L

She used to be John's therapist. –L

We have an ID on the hair –L

Come down -L

Angelo comes over to them again, with a candle and Sherlock stands.

"She is not my date. Keep an eye out for John." Susan looks crushed as she continues sitting.

"Another serial killer?" She asks and Sherlock turns to her looking her up and down. "A text that gets you moving that quickly; can't be from your partner, as he's now on the other side." She continues and for a brief second Sherlock thinks she may have observed that, but she didn't. It's disappointing. He shifts before turning. Her voice gives him pause.

"Nothing more interesting than a good serial killer?"

"Nothing." He lies as he leaves her there at Angelo's. There was nothing more interesting that he could have.

…

"That's my therapist." John shakes the picture in Jim's face before Jim bats it away.

"It is." He confirms as he nods.

"The blonde hair?" John decided to try his luck.

"Belongs to Harry." Jim answers with a one shouldered shrug. "Not your sister of course."

"Right." He nods once and turns to go.

"Have you decided on your second, yet?" Jim asks as John pulls the door open.

"I have, I'm going to send him a picture of the bridge."

"Lead him straight to the body." Jim approves and John keeps walking, he has to get to the bridge today so he can send him the picture later.

There is no body yet, which can be expected, so John snaps a picture of the bridge hoping it's recognizable to Sherlock and another just in case. The black car parked has started again and John nods before running up to it.

"Mr. Moriarty sending you on a scavenger hunt?" John looked to David, realizing how odd the name Moriarty sounded. When did that happen? He nods as they pull away.

"I suppose that's as close as you can get to labeling it."

"Where to now? Home?"

Home.

Yes that would be lovely, walking in to a head in the fridge or Mrs. Hudson's biscuits. He sighed as looked out the window, knowing he didn't have to keep a perfectly straight face with David. "Just back." He replies and wonders what Sherlock is up to. He lifts his vibrating phone.

_The hair was a giveaway. –SH_

_The murder for both cases is a woman called Kayla Martins. -SH_

John shakes his head with a smile

_And why would Kayla kill her doctor? -JW_

_For miscarrying her twins -SH_

Sherlock really is amazing. He taps the dashboard before texting the woman with the bomb. It only took Sherlock eight hours, but the body won't be under the bridge for another few hours, so John would give Sherlock a small break.

This gives John more time to think about the folders with information in them and wonder about the future contents of the empty ones.

…

"Hello?" Sherlock answers the phone to hear crying. It is a woman's voice, somewhere in her twenties. Sherlock listens to a shuddering breath as the other calmed.

"He said you can come get me." She sobs and Sherlock hands the phone to Lestrade who takes care of it.

An hour later Sherlock sends one more text.

_Why your therapist? -SH_

It is one John doesn't answer.

…

The woman knows John's face and the sound of his voice. She describes his tan and his hair as well as his clothes and mannerism. 'He knows you' she said 'never doubted you would save me.' Lestrade wishes all of his victims could remember that much, especially when they didn't know who the perp was.

"He didn't give you any message for me?" Sherlock can't fight the hope that swells in him, the irrational sentiment in his way. The belief that John was still on his side, still trapped and trying to get back to him was clawing at the gates of his mind palace desperate to get in and never leave. She shakes her head.

"He was real careful," She rubs her arms where there were straps. "It was like he didn't want to hurt me, despite strapping the bomb to me." Then she puts her head in her hands and sighs wiping her eyes.

Sherlock turns away from her and closes his eyes. _This I why I kicked him out; the attachment is too much, it makes me weak._ He opens them again and shoves his hands in his pockets.

"Did he, at any point, seem like he was being forced into this?"

It's easier not to face her, so he didn't have to control the expressions on his face. She closes her eyes and thinks back. Remembering the way he ran his hands over the bomb like it was his purpose, the way he handled the situation with familiarity, the way he commanded the others. She lets out a breath as she recalls that he never looked back at her, he was hardened, trained.

"No." She shakes her head. "He seemed like he was made for it."

Sherlock begins walking away without glancing back at her, and she turns to Lestrade to see him rubbing his forehead and shaking his head.

"Who is he?" she asks and she never really gets an answer.

The truth is Sherlock doesn't know anymore.

**TDS: Review!**


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